


Game Theory

by SallyJAvery (DrSallySparrow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Detectives, F/M, Mystery, Original Character(s), Police, Stealth Crossover, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-08-29 21:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 47,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16751875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSallySparrow/pseuds/SallyJAvery
Summary: It's nearly Christmas, but crime doesn't sleep. Instead, it leaves a swathe of destruction and dead bodies in its wake across Wizarding and Muggle London. Festive!The Aurors are stumped, the Met are mystified, and consulting detective Harry Potter is on the case.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> SOUND THE ALARM! CHRISTMAS FIC 2018!
> 
> Let's see if I can finish it before March this time, eh?

  _Haringey, East London  
__21st December 2007, 1:23am_

* * *

 

The goblin’s shoulders were slumped and his ragged breaths echoed harshly through the cavernous interior of the warehouse. His wrists had been bound to the arms of the perspex chair with thin nylon cords that were tied tightly enough to leave bloody welts where he had struggled against the restraints.  
  
The quiet was shattered by the screech of old hinges as one of the doors at the far end of the warehouse was wrenched open, admitting a ghostly sliver of moonlight before it fell closed with an echoing _boom_ . The goblin raised his chin, revealing ugly bruising across the bridge of his nose as he peered into the deep gloom, towards the footsteps that made their way across the cement floor.  
  
The feet stopped just outside the pool of sickly blue light cast by the jar of flames that hovered above the goblin’s head. For a moment all was silent as the goblin’s dark eyes searched the shadows, before they settled on a spot where the darkness seemed to thicken and coalesce.  
  
In spite of his injuries the goblin smiled nastily, showing a row of sharp, even teeth.  
  
“What is this?” he rasped, in faintly-accented English. “What is it that you want?”  
  
The man in the shadows shifted, and for a moment his eyes caught the blue flames in an unearthly glitter, but he made no reply.  
  
The goblin leaned forward, his weight making the cords bite anew against his skin and causing a fresh line of scarlet to well around one wrist. “Do you think that wizards have not tried to learn our secrets before?”  
  
He hawked his disdain, and a glob of bloody phlegm landed just short of the toes of the man’s polished shoes.  
  
“Your kind and your never-ending greed.” The goblin’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You must have a deathwish, boy, to risk the fury of the Horde.”  
  
At this, the wizard took a step forward, raising one gloved hand to loosen his collar. As the light revealed his features the goblin’s eyes widened slightly, before they quickly focused on the wand that the man held loosely at his side.  
  
“It so happens that I’ve been marked for death before,” the wizard remarked in a bored voice. “So that’s really nothing new.”  
  
He gestured with his wand, barely more than a flick, but the goblin barked with pain as the spell lashed his cheek.  
  
The wizard smiled, very slightly. “First things first. Don’t call me _boy_.”

 

* * *

  
  
They found the body on Christmas Eve, about as far from festive as you could get. Ogden had still been alive, then, and he had met Harry’s gaze grimly over the top of the goblin's corpse.  
  
“This is bad,” was all he’d said.  
  
They’d both watched as Justin had levitated one of the goblin's hands, turning his wand so that the fingers spread out in mid-air.  
  
“See there?” he’d said, pointing. “All the phalanges broken, even the distals.” The air had whistled between his teeth as he’d sucked in a breath. “Goblins are far more dexterous than humans,” he’d commented. “It wouldn’t surprise me if - yes - here you go -”  
  
Harry had run his eyes along the markedly elongated metacarpal that Justin had gestured at in the goblin’s hand, noting where it had been broken in multiple places.  
  
"He was almost certainly still alive for this," Justin had murmured thoughtfully. "Look at the difference in the bruising there. I'm guessing it took a while."  
  
Harry had looked back at Ogden, who hadn’t moved. The older man’s eyes were fixed on the corpse, his expression murderous.  
  
“Who the fuck would do that?” Harry had asked quietly.  
  
“Someone who wanted answers,” Emilius had replied, shaking his head slowly before meeting Harry’s gaze. “I suggest we hurry up and find some of our own.”

 


	2. Credible Threat

_Diagon Alley_

_13th December 2009, 9.27am_

 

Ron Weasley had thought it was too early on a Sunday for most of the shops on Diagon Alley to be open, but he had forgotten quite how close it was to Christmas. News travelled fast in the Wizarding World, so by the time he arrived at Gringotts word had spread from the few curious shoppers who had stopped to try and peer past the emergency wards the DMLE first-responders had hastily thrown up, and there was now a large crowd gathered at the perimeter.  
  
Looking across the mass of people, Ron caught a glimpse of Calliope Nakamura’s distinctive purple-tipped hair. He stifled a groan as he ducked his head, but it was already too late. _The Quibbler_ ’s lead investigative journalist had spotted him, and as soon as she turned his way the other reporters followed suit.  
  
“Auror Weasley! Auror Weasley over -”  
  
“- can you tell us -”  
  
“- number of casualties -”  
  
“- any suspects -”  
  
Keeping his chin down and his mouth firmly shut, Ron shouldered his way through the throng of journalists, meeting requests for comment and wild speculation with the same stony silence. A hand rested gently on his sleeve just before he reached the wards, but Ron met Callie’s enquiring gaze with a tiny shake of his head, and she backed off before he activated the charm on his DMLE badge that would allow him to cross the boundary.  
  
Once he was through, the noise of the crowd dropped to a faint background murmur and Ron breathed a sigh of short-lived relief. This side of the barrier the air lost its wintry chill, and it carried a thick, heavy scent: smoke, brick dust and something putridly sweet and vaguely metallic that Ron recognised, with a sudden hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, from the Battle of Hogwarts, more than ten years ago.  
  
He picked his way carefully through the scraps of twisted bronze and charred marble that littered the pavement in front of the bank, coming to a stop at the bottom of the sweeping steps, now scorched and blackened, that led up to the front doors. Only one of these remained intact, listing from its hinges at a crazy angle.  
  
The preliminary report that had been deposited on Ron’s kitchen table at eight thirty that morning indicated that Fiendfyre had raged through the bank overnight. Only a thousand years worth of goblin magic worked into the very stones had kept the external structure largely intact. The alarm hadn’t been raised until an unfortunate Cursebreaker unlocked the doors at half past seven, releasing a powerful blast as the starved flames gorged themselves on fresh air.  
  
Cursebreaker Orpington was now in a critical condition in St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Ron had visited the hospital before he came down to the scene, taking the chance to speak briefly to Healer Davis, who had not been overly optimistic about the man’s chances of survival.  
  
“Third-degree burns to most of the torso and face, fourth-degree almost all the way up his right arm. Smoke inhalation...” Tracy's Welsh accent sounded unusually grave as her pale eyes skimmed the injury report. “Even if he does live, we’ll almost certainly have to amputate what’s left below the shoulder.”  
  
Though Ron didn’t know Inigo Orpington personally, the Gringotts Cursebreakers were a tight-knit group and he had heard the name in conversation with Bill a couple of times.  
  
Thinking of Bill again as he surveyed the destruction, Ron ignored the slight feeling of guilt at the relief he had felt when Davis had confirmed the identity of the heavily-bandaged figure lying in the bed behind her. No one would blame him, he knew. Merlin, even Harry would have -  
  
“It’s a mess in there.”  
  
Startled from his thoughts, Ron turned to his right to find his partner standing next to him and eyeing the doorway. Dean Thomas’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, a muscle ticked in his jaw, and Ron struggled to think of a time that he had seen him look more furious.  
  
“How bad?” he asked, trying to squint through the haze of dark smoke that still spilled through the doors. Even now, firefighters from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes were down in the tunnels that ran under the bank, battling to get the last of the blaze under control.  
  
“Seven fatalities confirmed,” Dean said. The unspoken _that we know of_ hung between them.  
  
“Wizards or -”  
  
“All goblins.” Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Whoever did this must be a lunatic,” he spat. “The Gringotts clan have revenged slights to their honour on entire wizarding families. On generations, even. This is multiple murders, theft, _and_ destruction of property.”  
  
“You say that as though it's worse than the murders.”  
  
Dean cut Ron a look, just as he heard what he was saying and had to resist the urge to punch himself in the forehead. “Right. Goblins. Got it.”  
  
“Clueless, you are,” Dean muttered, though it was more affectionate than accusatory.  
  
Ron smiled apologetically. "Any idea yet of what's missing?"  
  
"We won't know until the fire's out." Dean sighed. "And even then we're going to have a time of it getting the goblins to tell us."  
  
His gaze turned thoughtful as he looked towards the crowd gathered at the edge of the perimeter. “Did Callie manage to get hold of you?”  
  
“She knows I can’t give her anything this early on,” Ron said, immediately annoyed by his own defensiveness when Dean’s mouth threatened a smirk.  
  
“Doesn’t stop her trying though, does it?” he teased, before he looked back at the doors, his face turning grave.  
  
Ron followed Dean's stare, and decided there was nothing else for it. “Is it safe to take a closer look?”  
  
“DMAC are down to the lower levels, so there's only one way to find out,” Dean said, before he cast a Bubblehead charm on himself. Ron followed suit, and together they climbed the stairs and went into the entrance hall.  
  
Even with the flames mostly contained the heat was still palpable; nevertheless Ron, seasoned Auror and hero of the Second Wizarding War though he was, felt a shiver work its way up his spine as he looked around.  
  
The interior of Gringotts bank was barely recognisable: the carved white marble walls were stained coal-black and the polished wooden counter had been reduced to smouldering lumps of charcoal, dotted here and there with pools of melted brass; all that remained of the tellers’ weighing scales. Wisps of smoke and flecks of ash drifted lazily through the air above three corpses in the middle of the floor.  
  
“Have they been moved?” Ron frowned down at the neat arrangement. Each of the goblins had been laid with their feet facing the door, arms folded over their chests.  
  
“This is how they were found, apparently,” Dean replied, frowning at his own scrawl in his notebook. “Justin just owled to say Paraforensics are mustering, but they’ll be another fifteen minutes or so. Until then cause of death is anyone’s guess, but it - well. No markings, so it looks like a straightforward _Avada_.”  
  
Ron nodded slowly, hearing the hesitation in Dean’s voice. “You think differently?”  
  
Dean kissed his teeth, his lip curling into an expression of utter contempt before he tipped his chin towards the mostly-missing back wall. “It’s pretty obvious that somebody robbed the place. Seems to me like these poor sods were left here as a message.”  
  
Ron nodded slowly, stepping across to examine the surprisingly neat hole that had been cut through the stone.  
  
“Boring Charm,” Dean said behind him. “Fucking powerful one too.”  
  
_“What’s boring about it?” Ron asked, forehead scrunched in confusion when Flitwick announced the subject of that day’s lesson._  
  
_Hermione rolled her eyes. “Boring as in to_ bore _a_ hole _,” she hissed._  
  
_The “you idiot,” went unsaid, though Ron could feel Harry’s shoulder shaking with laughter next to him._  
  
“You said seven bodies?” Ron said, dismissing the memory and turning back to survey the gutted Counting Hall.  
  
“Yeah.” Dean wrinkled his nose unhappily. “The others are a bit more in line with what you’d expect from Fiendfyre.”  
  
Ron winced at that, then looked again at the three corpses in the middle of the blackened marble floor, feeling a prickle of déjà-vu. It could be no accident that they had been left like this: untouched by the fire, and clearly intended for the Aurors to find.  
  
He knelt for a closer inspection, running his gaze across the bodies, and spotted something that made his stomach drop for the second time that morning.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
"What is it?" Dean asked, squinting as he peered over Ron's shoulder.  
  
"Wasn't it a goblin, that first body in Haringey?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "But he was one of the Bavarian Horde, not a Gringotts -"  
  
"Look," Ron said, and Dean abruptly quieted as he spotted what had caught Ron's attention. All three goblins’ hands were splayed across their chests, and it was clear up close that every single digit had been broken in multiple places.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean swore, quiet and vehement. “Fucking fuck.”  
  
Ron dropped his chin towards his chest and blew out a heavy breath. “Alright then. We need to Owl the Department straight off. Tell Creevey I want the Haringey file on my desk by the time I get back.”  
  
He rose swiftly to his feet and marched out of the mangled doors with Dean following closely on his heels. “You really think it could be -”  
  
“I think the DMLE were cagey enough about the finer details that it has to be more than a coincidence,” Ron sighed as he removed his Bubblehead charm and gave his head a shake to dispel the momentary dizziness caused by the influx of fresh air. “Don’t you?”  
  
Dean nodded as he followed suit, scrubbing a hand over his short curls. “I remember how adamant Harry was that it was a fix-up.”  
  
Ron glanced across the wards, where he could see Callie deep in conversation with Rowan Khanna from the _Prophet_ , and sighed. “Are you alright to wait here for Paraforensics while I head over to Grimmauld Place?”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re going to go now?”  
  
Ron stuck his wand back into its holster and started to pull on a thick pair of knitted gloves. “I want to talk to Harry before this has a chance to get out. This close to Christmas? The papers are practically salivating for a scandal.”  He chewed his lip for a moment. “No. If I go straight away there’s less chance of anyone else getting ahead of us. Run interference for me?”  
  
“You bastard,” Dean sighed, but he nodded, wrapping his scarf firmly around his neck as he fell into step with Ron and strode towards the perimeter.  
  
They both pressed their DMLE badges to allow themselves across, and the last thing Ron heard before he disapparated was Dean clearing his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement I have been authorised to answer -”


	3. In Sequence

****_Soho, Central London_

_13th December 2009, 9.22am_

 

Less than a mile west of the chaos that had overtaken Diagon Alley, and a little before Ron Weasley arrived outside Gringotts bank, a burly Muggle man ignored the fairly unambiguous instruction to DO NOT CROSS and ducked his way under a barrier of white and blue police tape. It had been used to secure the entryway to a council block overlooking the throng of Christmas shoppers on Dean Street, and the man started up the stairs two at a time, followed by a small woman wearing a headscarf and a leather jacket.

When they reached the third floor flat they were greeted at the front door by a uniformed constable who fixed the pair of them with a glare. The large man fished in his pocket and flashed his warrant card, the woman behind him following suit, and after quickly scanning both, the PC stepped aside. Making their way into a grubby, narrow hallway, the big man raised a hand in greeting to a rangy plainclothes officer in Doc Martens.

The officer had been talking quietly to another uniform further along the hallway, but he broke off the conversation when he spotted the new arrivals.

“Skipper’s in there,” he said without preamble, motioning with his head towards an open doorway. The burly man nodded his thanks before motioning the woman in the headscarf forward.

“Detective Sergeant Sahra Guleed, meet DS Jack Walsh,” he said gruffly. “The two of you stay out here,” he added, in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

Sahra’s mouth flattened into an annoyed line, but she sniffed primly - “Whatever you say, guv” - before walking over and extending a hand to Walsh.

The big man watched them for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied that he wasn’t going to be disobeyed, he stepped through into what turned out to be the living room. It was as poky and unremarkable as the rest of the flat that he’d seen so far, and was fitted out, in the way of most London rentals, with odd bits of mismatched furniture. A faint, stale odour of cats and cigarettes permeated the air, seemingly emanating from the worn, greyish carpet.

Detective Chief Inspector Pamela Carey looked up from where she knelt by one of the sagging armchairs and offered him a grim smile. “There you are, Dursley. Sorry to drag you out on a Sunday, but I think we might have an early Christmas present for you.”

“One of my odd ones?” asked Detective Inspector Dudley Dursley, pulling at the knees of his suit trousers before he crouched beside Carey to get a closer look at the corpse in the middle of the living room floor.

“Exactly,” she nodded. “No signs of disturbance, and the flat was locked from the inside.”

“Who called it in?” Dudley asked, running his eyes across the corpse as he fished a pair of blue vinyl gloves from his coat pocket and pulled them on.

“Anonymous tip from a phone box on Old Compton Street. No CCTV, before you ask.” Carey smirked wryly, watching Dudley lift the corpse’s hands to inspect his fingernails. “We thought it might be something gang-related to begin with, but I think you’ll agree he doesn’t exactly look the type.”

Dudley nodded, his mouth thinning as he took in the victim’s neatly tied cravat, dark shirt and old-fashioned, beautifully tailored coat. Looking back up to the corpse’s face, he thought that the man’s final expression might have been one of surprise, though it was rather hard to tell, since someone had gone to the trouble of cutting out his eyes.

“Do you think that was post-mortem?” Dudley nodded towards the empty, bloodied pits before glancing at Carey, whose nose had wrinkled with distaste.

“Hard to say,” she answered. “There doesn’t seem to be enough blood for it to have been done while he was alive, but there’s no way to be sure until the coroner gets a look at him.”

When he’d been new to the force this sort of thing would have turned his stomach, but Dudley was far less green now than he’d been a few years ago so he just frowned a bit deeper before turning to squint over his shoulder, following the approximate angle of the corpse’s hollow gaze. If he’d thought the swirls of grimy artex might hold a clue as to what had happened then he was disappointed, as nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Glancing back down, Dudley’s eye caught on the snake insignia that marked each of the row of shining silver buttons that marched down the front of the victim's waistcoat and across his ample stomach, and he felt a prickle of unease.

“Any ID on him?”

“Nothing we've been able to find,” Carey replied. “One of my boys is onto the Land Registry to try and trace the owner of the flat, but he’s drawing a blank at the moment.”

Dudley’s eyebrows rose. “Offshore?”

“The weirdest thing, you know.” Carey pursed her lips. “He said it’s almost as though there’s no record of the flat even existing before this morning.” She shrugged apologetically when Dudley looked sharply at her, then rose to her feet. Dudley followed suit, stripping off his gloves as he did so.

“What did the caller say, exactly?”

“Erm.” Carey flicked back a page in her notebook. “Here it is: ‘There’s something in Flat 7, Portland House, Dean Street that may be of interest to you and your Aurora colleagues' -”

“Wait.” Dudley held up a hand. “Aurora?”

“That’s what it says here,” Carey frowned down at her notes. “Probably just some nutter trying to stir things up, but I had a quick look before I came over and Aurora’s listed as a possible flag for your lot. What with that, the locked door and all this -” she gestured at the body “- weird shit, I figured -”

Dudley was barely listening to her as he reached into the inside pocket of his grey wool coat to pull out a tiny vial of something vaguely purple.

“Stand back please, Ma’am,” he told Carey, cutting off her soliloquy about special working groups. She closed her mouth with a snap but stepped obediently towards the door, watching intently as Dudley upended the contents of the vial over the body. The liquid turned to greyish smoke upon contact with the air, resolving into a split second image of the thickset man, hands held to his chest and mouth agape, before it dispersed.

“Shit,” Dudley sighed, as Carey, who had visibly paled, snapped “What the fuck, Dursley -“

Before Dudley could respond there was a loud and distinctive _crack!_ from the hall and both of them turned towards the doorway as they heard Walsh's voice raised in a shout of alarm.

“Where the bloody hell did you come from?!”

Dudley hurried out of the living room to find the source of the commotion, closely followed by Carey. They found the officers who had been stationed in the hallway facing off against a dark-haired woman who had appeared, seemingly from nowhere, in the doorway that led to the dingy kitchen.

Dudley took in the situation at a glance, eyes skipping from the taser in Sahra’s hand to the extended baton in Walsh's. Jack's other arm was thrown protectively in front of the uniformed constable, who was staring at the newcomer with an expression of bewilderment that under any other circumstances would have been funny. Dudley turned his eyes to follow the PC's, and took in the woman. She was tall and slim, poured into an elegant black dress that served to emphasise every curve, but in spite of these distractions it was her right hand that commanded Dudley’s attention - or rather, the long, carved stick that she was holding in it.

As though she felt the direction of his gaze the woman snapped her head up to look at Dudley, her perfectly arched brows drawing together as their eyes met. Without a second thought he launched himself forward, shoving Sahra out of the way to wrap his fingers around the woman’s wrist and wrench the stick from her grasp.

“Dursley, what are you -”

“Don’t even think about it,” he breathed in the woman’s ear, feeling a staticky fizz beneath his palm as he maintained his tight hold on her. The woman glared at him for a moment, and then her mouth twitched and the sensation died.

Without letting go, Dudley turned towards the other officers crowded into the hallway.

Carey and Walsh were staring at him in mild consternation, and the PC had transferred his shocked stare to Carey as though expecting the senior officer to give an explanation for this bizarre turn of events. Sahra’s eyes, meanwhile, hadn’t budged from the dark-haired woman who was now in Dudley’s armlock.

Suddenly, Dudley remembered the other uniformed PC, who had been stationed at the entrance to the flat when they'd arrived. He glanced towards the door, and realised there was no sign of her.

 _Bollocks_ , he thought. _Bollocking_ -

“Dursley?” Carey repeated carefully. “What’s going on here?”

Dudley felt another wave of static under his fingers, and squeezed tight enough that he felt a bone creak in the woman’s wrist before it subsided. “Stop it,” he growled, before turning to address Carey. “I think you were right to call it in, Ma’am.”

Carey eyed him for a long moment before she nodded slowly. “You’ll be wanting control of the scene then?”

“Yes,” Dudley said. “My unit will handle things from here, but I wonder if I might commandeer you and your officers for the time being?”

Carey exchanged a look with Walsh, whose shoulders visibly dropped. “Be my guest,” the DCI smirked before she pulled her phone from her pocket and stepped back into the living room.

“Right,” Dudley said. “DS Guleed?”

“Yes, guv?” Sahra’s voice was businesslike, but her eyes were bright with curiosity.

“Have you got your Airwave on you?”

“Still in your car where you said to leave it, guv.” Sahra gave a helpless shrug, but something in her face told Dudley she was enjoying herself, and he scowled in response. Walsh opened his mouth to say something, but Dudley shook his head to quiet him before he turned his attention to the remaining uniform.

“In that case, PC…?”

“Marshall, sir.” The young officer swallowed audibly, his adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat. “I’ve got my Airwave, sir.”

“Good man, Marshall,” Dudley nodded. “I need you to put a call in to Whiskey Echo Charlie. Ask for DCI Nightingale and tell him DI Dursley is requesting use of the special interview room, bringing in a female IC1 apprehended at scene in possession of a deadly weapon.”

Marshall’s eyes widened slightly and he gave the woman a quick once-over before his gaze darted to the stick now firmly gripped in Dudley’s hand. “Right you are, sir,” he nodded hurriedly and turned away, speaking quietly into the transmitter strapped to his stab vest.

“Interesting,” the woman remarked, as casually as though she were commenting on the weather.

Dudley ignored her as he spoke to Walsh. “Jack, is that your Q-car parked downstairs?”

“Yeah.” Walsh's forehead crinkled. "Why?"

"You've got lights?"

"Ye-es, but -"

“Right then,” Dudley said, before the DS could object. “I want you to put on the blues and twos and take DS Guleed with you up to Islington, sharpish. Street called Grimmauld Place, Sahra knows where it is.”

Dudley felt the woman tense under his grasp when she heard the street name, but she stayed silent. Sahra raised a single incredulous eyebrow. “In his Beemer? That sort of show’d send any CI running for the hills.”

“You know full well you’re not going there for a CI,” Dudley growled at her. “Give him a call when you’re outside the house.” He addressed Jack again, “When you see a flash git with a bloody great scar on his forehead, you bring him straight into Savile Row.”

Walsh's frown deepened, and he glanced between Sahra and Dudley. “And what if he doesn’t want to come with the friendly police officers?”

The dark-haired woman made a soft sound that was almost a laugh, and Dudley fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Then you impress upon him the importance of his cooperation.”

The smile that broke across Sahra’s face was a little too eager. “Can I impress it upon him with handcuffs?”

“Use your discretion, _Detective Sergeant_ ,” Dudley sighed, before jerking his head towards the door to indicate that they were both dismissed. He watched as they walked out to the communal stairwell, where they paused to speak quietly with Marshall, before heading off together towards the lifts.

“Anything I can do?”

DCI Carey had re-appeared in the doorway to the living room and was standing there with her arms crossed, eyeing the dark-haired woman warily.

Dudley glanced towards the front door again, where Marshall now stood alone. “What happened to the other PC?”

“What other PC?” Carey asked, frowning.

“Marshall responded to the call alone, did he?” Dudley answered pointedly.

Carey looked towards Marshall, who was once again looking deeply confused. “I was with - I can’t remember who I was with.”

“Thought so,” Dudley sighed. “Ma’am, I don’t expect you’ll find anything, but if you could have someone check the shift roster for this morning...”

“I will,” Carey nodded, her eyes narrowed.

“Any other officers on the scene?” Dudley asked.

“Two in a squad car round the corner,” Carey said. “I can have more here if -”

“No, best not.” Dudley shook his head. “Ask them to secure the entry downstairs. I’m going to take Miss...”

“Parkinson,” the dark-haired woman helpfully supplied when he paused. “Pansy Parkinson.”

“...Miss Parkinson here back to West End Central with me for questioning," Dudley continued, before looking at back to Carey. “I’d prefer it if you and Marshall stayed behind, Ma’am. Do you have a number for St Bart’s Hospital?”

Carey blinked in surprise. “Yes, I think so. If not, I can get one.”

“Good,” Dudley nodded. “Ask for Dr Finch-Fletchley in Pathology. Extension 394. Give him the address and tell him Detective Inspector Dursley is requesting his special forensics unit attend.”

“Any idea how long it’ll take them to get here?” Carey asked, but her expression was more resigned than belligerent, and she nodded wearily when Dudley gave an apologetic shrug. “Right then, Marshall, with me.”

Dudley waited until the PC had followed Carey back through to the living room before he turned his attention to Parkinson, who was looking up at him through sooty lashes.

“So,” she purred. “How exactly do you know Harry Potter?”

“I’m his cousin,” Dudley answered curtly, before making a snap decision. “And I am arresting you, Pansy Parkinson, on suspicion of magically-abetted murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your -”

“Murder?” Parkinson interrupted in a sharp voice. Her eyes went to the living room doorway as the colour drained from her face. “Enough,” she snapped. “If Potter’s Muggle cousin is going to arrest me, then I want a bloody phone call.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read the Rivers of London series and caught the references, excellent. This isn't really a crossover fic, I've just borrowed some terminology and one of my favourite characters. Also, I appreciate that it isn't hugely christmassy yet, but never fear, because it's coming. You better watch out.


	4. Backward Induction

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_  
  
_13th December 2009, 9.34am_

 

Unaware that he was shortly expecting visitors, Harry Potter, former Auror and now (officially speaking) gentleman of leisure, was at that moment brushing his teeth and studying his reflection in the mirror above the sink. The bruise around his right eye had almost entirely faded, and you could only see the shallow scratches on his cheek if you were really looking for them.

"Admiring yourself, are you?" the mirror asked dryly, and Harry scowled in response, before bending forward to spit toothpaste into the sink.

"Oh, very uncouth," the mirror sniffed as he rinsed his mouth with icy water from the tap. "Anyone would think you were a common Muggle."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Harry huffed, setting his toothbrush back in the cup and dragging a hand through his overlong hair.

"You never do," the mirror said, with a mournful sigh, and Harry rolled his eyes as he turned and left the bathroom to head downstairs.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place bore little resemblance to the dingy townhouse Harry had known while Sirius was still alive. Over the years, the cautious truce with Kreacher had grown into something resembling a grudging mutual affection, and when Harry had sat down to tentatively propose some remodelling the elf had surprised him by producing the original plans for the house and making a number of his own suggestions.

It had been Kreacher's idea, for example, to install the tall french doors that opened onto the (alarmingly wild) back garden, flooding the kitchen with pale winter sunlight that fell brightly onto Hermione Granger's shoulders where she sat at the table reading a newspaper.

"Oh," Harry said, coming to an abrupt stop in the doorway. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Home invasion," Hermione commented without looking up. "You shouldn't leave your Floo open."

"Master has a visitor!" Kreacher popped out of thin air, his arms filled with what appeared to be pine cones, and bowed deeply to Harry before turning his head slightly towards Hermione. "Is Master wishing Kreacher to expel the Mudblood One from his presence, or to make tea?"

"I think tea will do for now, thanks," Harry said. "And maybe later we can have a refresher course on how you address my friends."

"He doesn't mean any harm," Hermione murmured. She still hadn't looked up from the newspaper, and Harry watched as a familiar line appeared between her eyebrows. "Something's happened in Diagon Alley."

"Oh yeah?" Harry replied, sliding into the chair opposite her. "What sort of something?"

"It doesn't say," she answered, spinning the paper and pushing it across the table towards him.

The  _Prophet_  had devoted their entire front page to a gigantic headline -  _ **MYSTERY INCIDENT AT GRINGOTTS BANK**_   _-_ beneath which was a photo of Ron shouldering his way through a crowd. Seeing Harry, the photo-Ron smiled and waved, apparently forgetting his duties for a moment, before disappearing behind an emergency perimeter ward. Harry pulled the paper closer and scanned the article quickly -  _no details released at this time - Aurors still onsite - rumours of multiple casualties - no comment from St Mungo's -_

"' _Get the full story, only in today's_ Evening Prophet,'" Harry read aloud. "Do you reckon Callie knows Rowan's promising an exclusive?" he smirked, accepting a mug of tea when Kreacher appeared at his side and sipping it without thinking. "Ouch, fuck, Kreacher that's too -"

"Master will watch his tongue, lest it is worse than burnt," Kreacher sniffed, handing another mug to Hermione, who used it to hide her smile. "Will Master and the Mudblood One be requiring anything else, or may Kreacher be permitted to finish decorating the parlour?"

"Decorating the - wait, what are you doing?" Harry yelled up the stairs as Kreacher disappeared. "Did he tell you what he was doing?" he asked, looking back at Hermione.

"I think 'decorating the parlour' is fairly self-explanatory," Hermione said mildly, blowing on her tea before bringing the mug to her mouth. Her eyes sparkled over the top of it, and Harry sighed, tossing the paper back on the table and then wincing when the motion pulled at the ribs that had been broken twelve hours before, and were still slightly tender.

Hermione caught the expression and frowned. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got in a fight with a teenage centaur," Harry sighed, rolling his shoulder carefully. "Which I guess is about right."

"I  _told_  you to take that pain potion," Hermione's voice was resigned.

"And I told  _you_ I can't think properly when I've had it," Harry replied. "Besides, you did a decent enough job fixing me up."

"You were lucky I was around," Hermione set her tea down and reached across to press her fingers gently against the remnants of swelling below his eye. "For all you knew I could have been on a hot date."

"Could you?" Harry made no attempt to hide the surprise in his voice, trying and failing to get a look at Hermione as she took hold of his chin and turned his head to examine the scratches from the centaur's fingernails.

"I was supposed to have dinner with Neville," she murmured. "But he had to work late."

"He always did have a crush on you," Harry said, his tone teasing.

An unfamiliar expression flitted across Hermione's face and she abruptly released Harry's chin, her hand hovering uncertainly in the air before she picked up her tea again. "Yes, well. In any case I should know better by now than to try and schedule social events when you're likely to end up in peril."

"I hardly think a fistfight with a centaur qualifies as  _peril_ ," Harry muttered, still trying to place the look that had briefly passed over Hermione's features.

"Oh really?" she retorted, with what Harry thought was possibly unnecessary sharpness. "Tell that to your eye."

"I -" Harry started, then his ribs gave another twinge and he decided that it wasn't worth arguing. "Fine. Did Kingsley say whether the Aurors had found Gorman?"

"Owled this morning," Hermione nodded. "Apparently Improper Use of Magic raided Gorman's camp last night after an unusual surge was reported. Found him out of his mind on pixie dust with about 15 computers. I imagine it'll take them most of the week to work out how he was connected to the internet."

Gorman, the centaur who had left his mark on Harry's face and ribs, had been using his divinatory powers to achieve an uncanny run of luck in the Fantasy Premier League. So uncanny, in fact, that the Essex Police's Fraud Squad had decided to have a look into who, exactly, was behind  _IlPegasi89_ 's winning streak.

Like all British police forces, they input the case details into their central computing system, which ran a keyword search against other criminal investigations. It turned out that there were just enough flags in the initial report on Gorman's activities for the case to be referred to a unit called Specialist Crime Directorate 9.

Which was where Harry had come in.

 

* * *

  
_Four years earlier_  
 

Though he was loath to admit it, it had been the appearance at No. 4, Privet Drive of several rather impressive wizarding strangers the summer that he and Harry had both turned seventeen that had inspired Dudley Dursley to look seriously into the possibility of joining the Army. Once his father's death and his mother's ailing health made the prospect of overseas deployment less attractive, he had changed his mind, and had instead applied to the Metropolitan Police.

Dudley had joined the force straight out of school, and had been surprised to find how much he enjoyed the work. What had been possibly even more surprising was that he was actually  _good_ at it, and he had just earned his sergeant's stripes when he received a phone call from Royal Surrey County Hospital to inform him that his mother had been admitted and would he please be able to come in as a matter of urgency.

They buried Petunia on a bleak, drizzly day in late October. Dudley wore his full dress uniform, and sat through the service at the crematorium feeling numb with more than cold. Afterwards, there was a small wake in the receiving room, attended by a few neighbours and a couple of distant relatives on his dad's side. Dudley clutched a glass of water throughout, and tried to pretend that he wasn't constantly looking over the shoulders of people who came to offer their condolences. Despite his best efforts, his eyes kept seeking the door, which remained resolutely closed, admitting no one else.

When everyone had gone, he made his way back to stand at Petunia's graveside and stare at the mound of earth that hid her tasteful cherrywood coffin, wondering how he was supposed to be feeling. He wasn't entirely certain, but he didn't think  _relieved_ should have been quite so high up on the list of emotions.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat, and Dudley turned to see Harry standing there, wearing an improbably smart suit and an expression of strained determination.

For what felt like an incredibly long time, but was likely no more than ten seconds, neither of them said anything. Harry seemed to be sizing him up, and Dudley realised that he was doing the same thing.

His cousin looked good:there was no other word for it. He was as tall as Dudley, and though much narrower in build he had the wiry, fit look of someone who knew how to handle himself. His hair was as messy as ever, but Harry appeared to have grown into it, looking less like an urchin and more like someone who should be striding around moors in one of the period romances that Petunia had so adored.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dudley asked gruffly, and behind his glasses (lightweight tortoiseshell, miles away from the much-repaired NHS set he used to sport) Harry winced.

"Couldn't get away from work" he said quietly, which didn't exactly cover the last seven years. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his navy greatcoat, but Dudley had the impression that they were probably clenched into fists. "How was it?"

"How do you think it was?" Dudley sighed. "Fucking awful."

"I hate funerals." Harry scuffed at the muddy ground with the toe of one shoe, before looking back up at Dudley. "Fancy a drink?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," he replied gratefully.

Harry took him to a pub just off Streatham Common, and as they walked through the door Dudley felt the odd, fizzing sensation on his skin that he had come to associate with his cousin's "funny business." The place was almost empty, and when the barman caught sight of them his eyebrows rose to meet his shaggy hairline.

"Two pints of Ballycastle Bitter please, Marcus," Harry said, and after a brief pause the man nodded and started pulling the drinks.

"He's pretty discreet," Harry said quietly, once he'd ushered Dudley over to a table in the corner. "His father went to prison after the war but Marcus turned - well -" he frowned slightly, eyes roving once again over Dudley's uniform "- I guess you'd call it state's evidence."

"The war," Dudley repeated, cautiously tasting his beer and finding it smooth, hoppy, and surprisingly pleasant.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "That was a whole...  _thing_."

It took another four pints for him to tell the story, and Dudley listened with quiet disbelief as Harry revealed everything that had happened since he'd been whisked away from Privet Drive the night before his seventeenth birthday. Somehow the least unexpected aspect of the whole tale was that Harry was now a relatively senior wizarding policeman - or  _Auror_ , as he called it. He exuded the same air of quiet authority that Dudley was used to from the most competent officers he'd worked with.

"I wasn't surprised when I heard you'd joined the Police," Harry said, echoing Dudley's thoughts, but making him pause with his glass halfway to his mouth.

"Where did you hear that?"

Harry's mouth lifted into something that wasn't exactly a smile. "I've been keeping tabs," he replied. "I didn't want to intrude, because I wasn't sure - but I thought - shit." He placed his glass on a paper coaster advertising something called cauldron cakes, and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. "I appreciate that this is fairly crappy timing, but I've been meaning to talk to you for a while."

Dudley set down his own glass, more intrigued than offended by Harry's awkward demeanour. "What about?"

"So, me and my skipper have noted an 'alarming rise' in Muggle-adjacent crime in the last few months," Harry said, making quotation marks with his fingers and affecting a scots accent that was, in itself, quite alarming. (When Dudley eventually met Emilius Ogden, he would be struck by the accuracy of the impersonation). "Emilius took it to the Minister for Magic, who approached the Home Secretary, and - well, anyway. They've agreed to implement a task force of Aurors and police to work together on this, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in -"

"I'd be up for joining it, yeah," Dudley nodded, promptly deciding to blame his own eagerness at the prospect on the amount he'd had to drink.

"Well." Harry's not-quite smile had broadened. "We had a look at your record, and Emilius was actually thinking you might want to head it up."

 

* * *

  
No. 12 Grimmauld Place  
  
_13th December 2009, 9.43am_

 

"Good," Harry sighed, satisfied that Gorman's case was now safely in the hands of the DMLE. "And they don't suspect -"

"As per usual, you've covered your tracks remarkably well," Hermione said. "Though pixie dust, really, Harry?"

"Hey!" Harry held his hands up to protest his innocence. "It was his own supply, and I only gave him enough to mask the Obliviation."

Hermione pursed her lips in mock disapproval, her odd behaviour of a few moments before seemingly having disappeared. "If you were my client I'd be telling you -"

"Ah," Harry grinned. "But I'm not your client, I'm your  _business partner_ , so -"

" _Silent_  business partner," Hermione corrected him. "Which, frankly, is how I prefer you."

"And isn't the devil in the detail," Harry sighed. "Anyone would think you were a lawyer."

"Ha bloody ha," Hermione rolled her eyes, before draining the rest of her tea. "Anyway, I was thinking I might try and get hold of Callie and see if she knows any more about this Gringotts thing than -"

She was interrupted by a  _crash_ from the floor above, and the pair of them stared at one another for a moment before both pushing their chairs back and bolting for the stairs. When they reached the parlour, Harry was startled to find every surface covered by a proliferation of what appeared to be late-Victorian Christmas ornaments. Kreacher was standing in the middle of the room, levitating a heavy-looking garland into place above the mantelpiece.

"Kreacher?" Harry asked hesitantly. "Where on earth did all this come from?"

"Kreacher is finding Mistress Violetta's Yule things in the seventh attic," the elf replied, sounding worryingly breathless.

 _Seventh?_  Hermione mouthed at Harry, who shrugged. The house was forever revealing new pockets of itself, as the concealment charms either wore out or decided that Harry had finally proved himself trustworthy enough to use the upstairs drawing room.

"Well," Harry said after a moment's consideration of the parlour's new incarnation as a nineteenth-century Santa's grotto. "It looks - great?"

"Good enough for Master to invite guests?" Kreacher let the garland come to rest on the wall and turned to blink hopefully at Harry.

"Er -" he said. "Yeah, sure. Why not? Although -" he noted Kreacher's bent posture, and increasingly wizened appearance "- are you sure you're up for that, I mean it'll probably be Ron and his lot, and they're always -"

Kreacher straightened his back with an audible  _creak_ , his face turning mutinous as his ears flared to the sides. "Kreacher is not ready to be mounted on the wall of his forefathers  _quite_  yet, Master."

Harry heard Hermione give a stifled cough of laughter, and turned to ask her whose side she was on, before noticing that one half of her face seemed to be lit in flashing blue. "What -"

His pocket started buzzing, and a familiar marimba tune began to play. Kreacher shot the phone a look of utter loathing as Harry pulled it out and frowned at the screen, before pressing the green icon to answer the call.

"Black & Lupin Consulting," he said, watching as Hermione, in search of the source of the light, crossed the room to look out of the window. "How can I -"

"I've got a surprise for you," said Sahra Guleed, just as Hermione turned and motioned urgently for Harry to join her.

When he looked down to the street, he could see Guleed waving from the pavement outside. She wasn't quite looking at the house, but she wasn't quite  _not_ looking at it either. Behind her, a grey BMW was parked at the curb, the blue light that Harry had seen reflected on Hermione's cheek flashing from behind its engine grille.

"What sort of surprise?" he sighed.

"A murder victim that we think is one of yours," Guleed said, sounding unnecessarily gleeful. "And a suspect in custody who's  _definitely_ one of yours."

"In custody?" Harry asked. Hermione met his eye, her eyebrows rising into a silent question. "At West End Central?"

"Got it in one." He could see Guleed grinning from here. "Fancy a trip to Savile Row, Mr Potter?"

"I'll get my coat," Harry said, hanging up before Guleed could offer to put him in handcuffs. He wasn't sure, but he suspected it constituted a twisted form of flirting on her part. "Dudley thinks he's got a murderer," he told Hermione, who frowned.

"In Muggle London?"

"Sounds like it," Harry said over his shoulder as he strode out of the room. "He knows what he's looking for, and he's got the  _Priori_  potion, so I doubt he'd -"

"But who would be stupid enough to let themselves get caught by the Muggle police?" Hermione had followed him into the hall, and was standing by the front door with her arms folded, her forehead puckered in puzzlement.

"Sahra didn't say," Harry shrugged as he pulled on his coat, and watched Hermione's face darken slightly at the mention of Guleed. For some reason the two of them had never really seemed to get on.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she asked, and Harry shook his head.

"Send an owl to Kingsley first, let him know we might have some trouble on our hands," he said. "Then meet me at the station after." He glanced at the grandfather clock that stood austerely against the opposite wall. "They change the duty solicitor at half ten, so -"

"Yep," Hermione nodded, then waved her wand at her robes, silently transfiguring them into a neat Muggle skirt suit.

Harry paused with his hand on the door handle, momentarily distracted by the way Hermione's silk blouse set off her olive skin.

"What?" she asked, giving him another funny look.

"Nothing," Harry jolted himself back to the matter in hand, and pulled open the door. "See you in a bit."

" _There_ you are," Guleed said, as he stepped off the doorstep to join her on the pavement. "I thought I was finally going to be able to arrest you."

Standing nearly a foot taller than the diminutive police officer, Harry gave her an incredulous look. "You and whose army?"

"I'm sure Jack would have helped," Guleed grinned, jerking her head towards the car, where a man was sat forward in the driving seat, staring over the steering wheel with a look of utter perplexity as he patently tried to figure out where Harry had appeared from.

"Alright?" Harry nodded to him as he opened the rear passenger door and slid into the car behind Guleed.

"You don't look like a CI," the thin-faced policeman remarked as he started the engine.

Harry saw Guleed smirk in the rearview mirror, and scowled. "For fuck's sake," he muttered. "I'm not an informant, I'm a consulting detective."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Props to the extraordinarily patient **cocoartist** for her delightful editing


	5. Mixed Strategies

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_

_13th December 2009, 9.57am_

 

Ron probably ought to have felt worse about leaving Dean to the wolves of the Associated Wizarding Press, but he reasoned that he’d drawn by far the shorter straw for himself.

Why, he wondered to himself, as he apparated directly onto the doorstep of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, did his friendship with Harry so often involve having to turn around, hold his hands up and say _you know what, mate, you might have been right about that one_. Granted, when Robards had shown his hand and motioned the vote of no confidence against Kingsley following the Haringey affair, Harry had told Ron point-blank that he couldn’t follow him out of the door.

“You’ve got too much at stake,” he’d barked, as he yanked open a drawer in his desk that Ron had never noticed before and pulled out various files and bits of parchment. “What sort of godfather would I be if I let your kids starve?”

“ _Kid,_ singular,” Ron had shot back. He’d been aware, in a vague sort of way, that he should have been stopping Harry from ransacking confidential material, but that hadn’t seemed too urgent at the time. “And it’s not as though -”

“I’ve got an independent income,” Harry had interrupted flatly, and Ron had shut up, his ears burning in the way they always did whenever the subject of money was raised. “I can afford to throw away my career. And besides,” Harry had glanced towards the door of the office, then lowered his voice, “it might come in useful, having the Head Auror as a contact.”

“Robards is going for Minister isn’t he?” Ron had frowned, confused by this strange turn in the argument.

“I mean _you_ , you pillock.” Harry shrunk the pile of parchment he’d hastily cobbled together and then cast an _Impervius_ on the small tablet before tucking it into the side of his mouth. “Ogden’s dead, I’m following Kingsley out, who else do you think they’d give it to?”

He’d been right, of course, Ron reflected, as he absent-mindedly thumbed his DMLE badge, with its tiny _Head Auror_ inscription. One thing Harry had always been good at was seeing which way the wind was blowing, and Ron had a suspicion that whatever it was that he’d been pulling out of his desk that day two years ago, it had been something he hadn’t wanted Robards (who Harry had never seemed to trust) to know about.

And, Ron had to admit, he was glad that Harry’s insistence he stay on at the DMLE had saved him from what would have likely have been the fight of his married life. He squared his shoulders and pulled off his gloves in preparation to knock on the door, ignoring the little twinge of guilt when his wedding ring flashed in the insipid winter light and he remembered Callie’s hand on his sleeve that morning; her eyebrows raised in question.

That was another conversation he wasn’t looking forward to having.

Ron sighed, raising his fist towards the red-painted wood before he frowned, realising that his ring was also reflecting a flashing blue light. He turned to look over his shoulder, just in time to see a dark grey car, rather sleeker than anything Arthur had ever managed to get his hands on, turn off Grimmauld Place and onto the busy main road, emitting an urgent wail as it went.

In the usual run of things Ron didn’t pay too much attention to Muggle cars. It had been Fred and George who had inherited Arthur’s enthusiasm for cylinders and fan belts (George and Arthur had had a lengthy debate about something called _flux capacitors_ last Christmas), but Ron did have a special fondness for noisy, flashy emergency vehicles. The car he’d just seen hadn’t been bright blue and yellow, but it did have the lights, and he remembered Harry having told him once about ‘unmarked’ police cars, which Ron assumed was what he’d just seen.

He turned back towards the door and then paused. For some reason the sight of the car had left him with a distinct sinking sensation in his stomach that he didn’t think had anything to do with the breakfast he’d abandoned when the owl about Gringotts had arrived.

Realising that he was starting to shiver in the cold, Ron focused his attention back on Harry’s dark red-painted front door. 

_“Blood of my ancestors!” Ron squawked, waving his paintbrush wildly._

_“Stains of dishonour!” Hermione giggled, dipping her own brush into the pot._

_“Come on guys,” Harry grinned. “Let’s befoul the house of my forefathers.”_

Ron grinned at the memory, and brought his fist towards the wood. Unfortunately, the door chose that moment to fly open, so he ended up nearly punching Hermione in the face.

“Ron!” she exclaimed, ducking neatly out of the path of his knuckles and grabbing onto his arm to keep her balance as she released her hold on Andarta, Harry’s barn owl, who hooted reproachfully at Ron before soaring upwards.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked, once she’d let go of him and straightened upright.

“Ah -” Ron replied eloquently, squinting up at Andarta as she winged her way over the roofs of the houses opposite. “I’m - er -”

He looked back at Hermione and frowned, trying to work out what was off about the picture. _Muggle clothes_ , he realised, taking in the expensive-looking camel coat that she wore in place of a travelling cloak, and the briefcase in her hand - definitely leather, not dragonhide. Her hair looked as though it had had the Sleekeazy treatment, and was twisted neatly off her face. Paired with the impatient angle of her eyebrows, it was an outfit that said quite clearly that she had somewhere to be.

“You’re, er, _what_?” Hermione prompted, when Ron continued to stare at her.

“Yes,” he said, then shook his head. “No. I mean - is there any chance Harry’s around?” He craned his neck to peer past Hermione, as though he might detect his best friend lurking in the shadowed hallway. 

(Harry had always been much more inclined to leap than lurk, but even a decade on the Auror squad couldn’t quite quell Ron’s optimism.)

Hermione gave him an eloquent _you’re an idiot_ look. “ _Obviously_ not,” she replied, shaking her head so that a couple of rebellious curls freed themselves from the twist of her hair, before she stepped out over the threshold and pulled the front door closed behind her.

Glancing quickly around to make sure there were no Muggles watching, Ron backed down the step onto the pavement outside the house. Now standing lower than Hermione, he looked down at her feet and was surprised to see she was wearing heels.

He was so much more accustomed to seeing her in sensible loafers or brogues that he instantly recalled the shoes she’d worn to Percy’s wedding. Ron had a sudden, vivid memory of Hermione removing one vertiginous sandal and massaging the ball of her foot before she looked up at him and said, “We need to talk.”

That had been eight years ago, he realised; so long that it was almost hard to believe they’d ever gone out in the first place.

“Ron,” Hermione said sharply, and he jolted back to the present.

“Yeah - um - do you know when he’ll be back?” he asked. Hermione gave him another disbelieving look, and he wondered what, exactly, he was missing, before she huffed a sigh and flung the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder as she stepped past him to start walking (or more accurately _marching_ ) down the street, those maddening heels clicking against the uneven paving stones.

Ron stared after her for a moment, then gathered his wits and followed. “It’s just - it’s really quite - I’ve got to see him, Hermione, there’s - it’s a sort of -”

“Ron, it’s lovely to see you, and while normally I’d be happy to let you reach the point in your own time I’m in something of a hurry, so can you spit it out?” Hermione stopped and spun towards him, her bag swinging out to catch him in the stomach.

“ _Oof -_ bloody hell ‘Mione what have you got in -”

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” she sighed, shooting him a mild glare that became a considering look. “You’re on the clock,” she said slowly as she took in his greatcoat, with the DMLE badge prominently pinned to the lapel. “Why are you here if you’re on the clock?”

Her impatience appeared for the time being to have been replaced by curiosity, and Ron seized the opening gratefully. “Look, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but -”

“Is this about Gringotts?” Hermione asked, and Ron gaped at her.

“Who told you?” he demanded.

“It’s in the _Prophet,_ ” she said. “No details as yet, but it’s obviously something big.” Her mouth curved into a small, mischievous smile. “They had a lovely picture of you. Does Callie know you’re giving Rowan an exclusive?”

“I am _not_ ,” Ron replied hotly, before he could stop himself. “It’s - look. I _really need_ to talk to Harry about this -”

“Haringey,” Hermione said suddenly, her eyes widening. “This is about Haringey, isn’t it?”

“How do you know about that?” Ron asked, aghast. “No one except me and Dean knows we’re even _talking_ to Harry, let alone -” 

“I … Elementary deduction.” Hermione’s chin lifted slightly.

“Bullshit,” Ron rolled his eyes. “Harry never could keep secrets from you.”

There was a moment where he wasn’t quite convinced that she wasn’t about to do a Ginny and knee him somewhere painful, but then Hermione’s expression softened slightly. “Whatever’s happened - you think there might be a link?”

Ron nodded, straightening out of his slight protective crouch and hoping she hadn’t noticed. “Massive break-in,” he said, wavering slightly before he decided, _in for a knut -_ “Multiple goblin fatalities, and while it’s too early to be totally certain, there are some injuries and COD that look consistent with details of the Haringey case that were never made public.”

Hermione’s eyes widened and she blew out a low whistle. “Sounds like a heck of an ‘I-told-you-so’ to me.”

“Yeah, well.” Ron grimaced, and glanced down at his watch to try and hide his discomfiture. “Are you going to tell me where Harry is, now? I’d quite like to tell him the good news.”

“Bugger it!” Hermione exclaimed, which didn’t sound like an answer.

Rather than offering anything resembling an explanation, she set off again at a brisk pace, raising her arm in a bizarre salute as she hurried towards the main road. Ron chased after her without the faintest idea what she was doing until a black cab extricated itself from the flow of traffic and pulled up next to her.

Hermione leaned down to speak to the driver and said something incomprehensible before wrenching open the back door and clambering into the thing. After a moment she leaned forward and beckoned Ron to join her. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Oh!” Ron said, “Oh - er - right.”

He stepped gingerly into the interior of the vehicle, which was surprisingly spacious, though it clearly didn’t benefit from the same accommodations that his father’s old Ford Anglia had had. When he sat down he saw that the driver was watching him in the rear-view mirror with a suspicious glare.

Ron smiled faintly and raised a hand in what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly manner. The man merely huffed, and switched his gaze to Hermione.

“West End Central did you say, love?”

“Please,” Hermione nodded, fishing in her briefcase for something. “Call it twenty quid if we’re there before ten thirty.”

“Right you are, miss,” the driver said, before flooring the accelerator and launching them back into the flow of other cars with a squeal of rubber that had Ron gripping the seat tightly.

“Hermione,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Why aren’t we apparating?”

“Best to keep up appearances,” Hermione said absently, leafing through a box of business cards that she’d pulled out of her briefcase. She selected one, lifting it out and frowning before nodding to herself and tucking it into an inner pocket of her coat, only then turning to look at Ron. “Muggles don’t really like it when you just pop out of midair,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Unnerves them.”

There was a very slight lift at one corner of her mouth, and Ron had the distinct impression that he was being teased. “Fine,” he said, “but - sorry - _why_ are we going to a police station?”

“Oh,” Hermione said, and for a moment she looked genuinely surprised. “I thought you were - so you didn’t see?”

“See what?” Ron asked, though he recalled, suddenly, the police car pulling away from Grimmauld Place and the little twinge of unease he had felt at the sight of it.

“The police came for Harry just before you did.”

“The _police -_ ”

“Keep your voice down,” Hermione scolded him sharply, and Ron chanced a look at the rear view mirror, catching the driver’s eye before the man looked pointedly back at the road.

“They always take him into Savile Row, it’s the only one where they’ve got a warded interrogation room -” 

“What do you mean ‘always’?” Ron interjected. “A warded _what_?”

Hermione paid no attention to the interruption. “The duty solicitor changes over at half past, so as long as the traffic isn’t too bad we should -” she flicked her wrist and Ron recognised her slim, gold watch as the one his parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday “- be just about on time.”

The wheels of the cab screeched to a halt outside an imposing concrete block of a building with a whole five minutes to spare. ‘West End Central Police Station’ was spelled out in small, neat metal letters to the side of the entranceway, next to the Met’s rather impressive coat of arms.  

“Just - wait a second,” Ron said, making an ineffectual grab for Hermione’s arm as he followed her out of the cab. “Why have the muggles arrested Harry?”

“Who said they’d arrested him?” Hermione asked, frowning, as she trotted up the stairs.

“Well, _you_ did, sort of -” Ron squinted at her, the significance of her muggle garb hitting him for the first time. “What you said before about a solicitor, do you mean -”

“Me, of course,” she said impatiently. “Who did you think?”

“But you’re a magical lawyer!” Ron was aware that there was something at play that he hadn’t quite grasped yet, and Hermione’s eye-roll didn’t help.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she huffed; such a nonsensical phrase he decided it wasn’t worth demanding a translation. Instead he remained silent at her shoulder as she pushed open the heavy door and slid a professional smile into place, walking up to the uniformed police officer in the reception booth and removing the card from her inside pocket to hold it up against the glass partition.

“Hermione Granger, I’m with Black & Lupin LLP. I believe Detective Inspector Dursley called for a solicitor?”

“Wait,” Ron said from behind her. “Wait _just a second_. I thought you were - did you say Black & Lupin? Detective _Dursley_? Are you having -” 

“Excuse my colleague,” Hermione said to the officer behind the desk, who was eyeing Ron sharply. He saw the glow of Hermione’s winning smile fade as she rounded on him. “Ron, I swear if you don’t shut up _right now_ I will confund you, stun you, and send you back to the DMLE transfigured into a teacup,” she hissed. “Do I make myself clear?”

Deciding the safest option was to fall silent again, Ron nodded mutely. Hermione sighed, dropping her shoulders, and then glanced around the blessedly empty waiting area before she turned back to the frowning desk sergeant and whispered “ _Obliviate_.”

Almost at once the officer’s scowl faded into a dreamy expression, and he smiled blithely at the pair of them. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, yes!” Hermione said, her bright tone restored. “Hermione Granger and -” she shot a glare over her shoulder at Ron “- and _associate_. We’re with Black & Lupin, here at the request of Detective Inspector Dudley Dursley.”

The desk sergeant nodded and tapped at a few buttons on his cheeseboard. “He’s down in the special interrogation room. I’ll let him know you’re here.” He lifted his fellytone, expression still a little bemused, and spoke quietly into it.

 “Hermione,” Ron whispered, aware that he was severely at risk of another telling-off. “What the fuck is going on?”

 

* * *

  _West End Central Police Station_

_13th December 2009, 10.14am_

 

“Alright, guv?” Guleed trilled as she and Walsh escorted Harry into reception. “Look what the cat dragged in!” 

Harry raised his eyes towards the ceiling and muttered “give me strength” before giving Dudley a half-hearted wave. Dudley smiled in response, unfolding his arms and reaching forward to shake Harry’s hand. He still had the crushing grip of a trained boxer, but though no one would ever describe him as _small_ , Dudley had long ago shed most of the bulk he’d carried as a child, and was now simply imposingly solid-looking.

“Did he give you any trouble, Sahra?” he asked over Harry’s shoulder, laughing when Harry scowled.

“Not you too,” he muttered, at the same time that Guleed sighed, “Disappointingly, no.”

“Have you just brought me here to take the piss?” Harry asked. “Please tell me Sahra didn’t make up the whole thing about a murderer?”

Dudley sobered abruptly. “No,” he sighed. “Suspect’s downstairs, but I was wondering if you could take a look at a couple of things before we take you in to talk to her.”

“Her?” Harry repeated. Guleed had refused to give him any more details during the ride over, so this was the first he was hearing of the suspect’s gender.

“Yup,” Dudley nodded. “The name Pansy Parkinson mean anything to you?”

“Pansy?!” She’d moved abroad, the last Harry heard. “Where did you pick _her_ up?”

“She _appeared_ in the middle of my crime scene,” Dudley said darkly. His eyes flicked towards Walsh, and Harry figured the other DS wasn’t one of the SCD-9 regulars.

“She’s secure?” Harry asked, following after Dudley when he jerked his head and turned to call the lift.

“In the warded room, pewter handcuffs,” Dudley confirmed. They stepped into the lift and Dudley pressed the button for level -2. He looked at Harry and narrowed his eyes, his gaze seeming to follow the line of faint bruising just visible below the edge of Harry’s glasses. “Been keeping busy?”

“That tip about the Fantasy Football checked out,” Harry shrugged. “What did you want to show me?”

Wordlessly, Dudley pulled his phone out of his pocket and passed it over. On the screen was a photo of a what seemed to be the interior of a muggle flat. “Where is this?” Harry asked.

“Soho,” Dudley said. “Dean Str-”

“Shit,” Harry said. He’d just flipped through to the next picture which showed the corpse, with its eyeless sockets, looking even more obscene in pixel form.

“What?” Dudley asked. “You know him?”

“I think -” Harry zoomed in on the corpse’s face, and then nodded. “That’s Gregory Goyle.”

“And he’s -”

“A wizard, yeah.”

“Right.” The lift chimed, opening onto an artificially lit corridor. Dudley stepped out and set off for the set of doors at the far end, footsteps echoing hollowly. “Well, that’s that confirmed I guess. Also -” he said, pausing with one hand on the door to the observation room “- before you ask, it had nothing to do with me.”

“What had nothing to do with you?” Harry asked, shrugging off his coat as he followed Dudley inside. By way of an answer, Dudley gestured at the one-way mirror that looked onto the interrogation room. “Ah,” Harry said, understanding at once.

Pansy was sat on a plastic chair in the centre of the room, her hands, in their heavy, pewter manacles, resting on the table in front of her.

As well as the handcuffs, she was wearing black stilettos, a self-satisfied smile, and nothing else.

“She did that without her wand?” Harry asked, suddenly uneasy.

“Just before I got her into the room,” Dudley affirmed curtly, his mouth thin and unhappy in a way that made him look very like his mother. “Other than that, she was remarkably cooperative.”

“Right then,” Harry sighed. “Well, I guess I’d better go and have a word.”

“Take this,” Dudley said, passing him a manila folder. Harry glanced at the photos inside and nodded.

“Thanks.”

He picked up his coat as well, and then let himself into the room next door.

Pansy’s smile turned into a grin when she saw Harry come in. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said.

Harry ignored her for a moment, letting his eyes rove around the khaki-painted walls as he checked the enchantments with a quick, non-verbal spell. Kingsley and Ogden had laid them personally, watched over by DCI Nightingale and the Met Commissioner. Finding nothing amiss, Harry finally turned his attention to Pansy, who was watching him carefully.

“Well,” he sighed. “I’d love to say it’s good to see you again.”

“You didn’t miss me?” Pansy asked, shifting in the chair. She’d hardly changed since the last time he saw her, at the Battle of Hogwarts - if a bit less bedraggled and a _lot_ more naked. She’d somehow managed to arrange herself with artful precision, keeping everything important covered, but Harry could still feel himself flushing.

“Merlin’s sake,” he muttered, releasing her from the manacles with a wave of his wand before he threw her his coat. “Put that on.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but she complied, even holding out her wrists for Harry to re-attach the cuffs when she was done. With his suspect now dressed enough to prevent distraction, Harry settled into one of the two chairs opposite her, and placed the folder deliberately on the tabletop.

Pansy’s dark blue gaze briefly dipped towards it, before she looked back at him. “Greg?” she asked quietly.  

Searching her face, Harry couldn’t see anything that told him she was faking the dread that seemed to await his answer. Then again, it was Pansy Parkinson.

“Yes,” he nodded. The spasm of pain that passed over her pert features looked real enough, but Pansy quickly rallied herself.

“How?” she asked.

“The police think you might be able to answer that,” Harry said mildly. Pansy frowned in response.

“He invited me to visit. I had no idea -”

“Didn’t you?” Harry sat forward, and opened the folder. “Last I heard, Goyle was in Germany. What exactly was he up to that saw him wind up back in London and dead in a shitty muggle flat?”

Pansy’s face, already alabaster, turned the colour of milk when she saw the photographs.

“That wasn’t me,” she said firmly. “I wouldn’t -”

“Who would?” Harry asked.

Pansy’s expression turned crafty, and her lips, which had been painted a deep crimson that emphasised their fullness, pursed into a faint moue. “Can’t you ask a more interesting question?” she purred, making a shrugging gesture that somehow managed to be elegant while allowing Harry’s coat to fall open and expose an expanse of creamy flesh from throat to navel.

Harry narrowed his eyes, keeping them firmly north of Pansy’s chin. He had the distinct impression that she was humouring him, somehow. Dudley had plenty of experience apprehending witches and wizards who found themselves on the wrong side of Muggle law, so the fact that he’d found her obliging was interesting, and Harry couldn’t help wondering why it might be that Pansy had allowed herself to be brought in with so little fuss.

“Why don’t you tell me what a more interesting question would be?” he asked, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.

Pansy’s smile widened, eye-teeth glinting in the harsh fluorescent light, but she was saved from answering as the door swung open behind Harry.

“Oh my god,” Hermione said, staring at Pansy as she dropped her briefcase on the table and slid into the chair beside Harry’s. “Are you naked under there?” she looked at Harry. “Why is she naked?”

“That,” Pansy said, raising an eyebrow and nodding in Hermione’s direction, “would qualify as a more interesting question.”

“What did he ask you, then?” Harry didn’t need to look away from Pansy to know that Hermione was smiling. “Oh no - let me guess - some variation on _‘what are you doing getting mixed up with Muggles’_?”

He fought to keep his indignation from his face at Hermione’s unflattering impersonation of his voice.

Pansy gave Hermione a considering look. “You know,” she said eventually, “I can see Potter setting up as some sort of private detective after that shitstorm at the Ministry, but I don’t understand where you come into things.” 

“I’m just here to make sure the paperwork gets done properly,” Hermione said primly, removing her own manila folder from her briefcase and leafing through the several pieces of parchment it contained. “But I notice that you don’t seem to have answered either of our questions..?”

Pansy gave another shrug. “I thought I should give the impression I had nothing to hide,” she said, all innocence, and Harry snorted.

“Right,” he said. “I completely believe you. And Goyle?”

“He’s been back in London for a while, and before you ask, I can’t tell you why.” Pansy’s smile dropped. “He had a hard time after the War.” She kept her expression neutral, but her eyes had darkened. “Like I said, I got an owl from him a couple of days ago asking if I’d visit this morning. I guess it was just poor timing.”

Harry glanced at Hermione, and saw her mouth tighten.

“You’ve been out of the country for...seven years,” she said, eyes flicking down to the parchment in her hand as she confirmed the number. “Do you really think we would find it credible that you just _happened_ to return the morning that Goyle was found dead?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Pansy said mildly. “Are you really telling me you think I did _that_?” she pointed at the bloodied holes where Goyle’s eyes had been.

“Did you?” Harry asked, and Pansy had the temerity to laugh.

“Merlin’s beard Potter, you don’t fuck around do you?” Her smile faded, her serious expression returning. “No,” she said quietly, “I assure you I did not.”

There was a long moment of silence as they held one another’s gaze. Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Pansy was being sincere, but without an application of Veritaserum he couldn’t be certain, and he wasn’t about to -

His thoughts were interrupted as the door behind them crashed open again, and Harry and Hermione turned in their seats. Across the table, Pansy grinned.

“This interview is over,” Theodore Nott pronounced flatly. “I demand that you release my client immediately.”

His expression of professional boredom wavered as he caught sight of Pansy, and his nose wrinkled slightly. “And for fuck’s sake, somebody get her some proper clothes.”

 


	6. Subgame Perfection

_West End Central Police Station_

_13th December 2009, 11.06am_

 

“You could have mentioned that you let her have a bloody phone call,” Harry grumbled as they all got into the lift together.

"I forgot,” Dudley hissed back, pressing the button for the second floor. There was a rarely used rec room up there that he’d had Guleed escort the ginger wizard - Rob or John or something - up to when he’d arrived with Hermione. “The whole _naked_ thing was a bit -”

“Yeah, alright.” Harry was staring daggers at the back of Pansy’s sleek, black bob. “I can see how it would be.”

On Harry’s other side, Hermione made a little huffing sound through her nose. From where she stood in front of them, her arm in the firm grip of the tall wizard who said he was her lawyer, Pansy turned her head slightly. When she caught Dudley’s eye she winked, and he felt his face go red.

Fortunately he wasn’t left to suffer in his embarrassment for long, because a few seconds later the lift gave a _ding_ , and the doors slid open. The motley group piled out, and followed Dudley as he led them along a corridor to the room where -

“What the fuck is the DMLE doing here?” demanded the tall lawyer, coming to a sharp halt.

The ginger wizard - who, come to think of it, Dudley was pretty sure was Harry’s best friend - had been sat in one of the chairs in the rec room, but now he rose out of it, blinking with surprise, before his face darkened.

“Pansy _bloody_ Parkinson?”

“Hey!” The tall wizard snapped. “I asked you a quest-”

“I don’t care if you asked -”

Beside Dudley, Harry looked at Hermione. “Did he come in with you?”

“Met him as I was leaving Grimmauld,” she nodded. “He needs to speak to you about -”

“Why don’t you fucking _try me_ , Nott,” the ginger wizard spat, in response to something the dark-haired lawyer had said.

“Careful, Weasley,” the lawyer drawled. “Wouldn’t want to make a scene now, would we?”

He had a point, Dudley acknowledged. The ginger wizard ( _Ron_ , that was his name) was steadily turning redder than his hair, and his hand was making a twitching motion at his side which experience told Dudley meant that he was trying to stop himself from going for his wand.

“Harry,” he said in an undertone, turning to see that his cousin was talking quietly and urgently to Hermione. “Harry,” Dudley repeated, louder this time, his eyes widening slightly as the lawyer let go of Pansy’s arm to point at Ron with a stabbing motion.

“Yeah, Dudley,” Harry said. “Just a sec-”

“Hey!” Guleed appeared from the kitchenette with two cups of coffee, one for her and one apparently for Ron. “What’s going on -”

“Drop your wand!” Dudley barked, yanking his taser from his pocket and pointing it at the lawyer, whose eyes widened as he raised his arms, the hand holding his wand opening to allow the stick to clatter to the floor.

“Guv?” Guleed said uncertainly. “Is everything -”

“Dudley?” Harry’s voice was careful. From the corner of his eye, Dudley saw him raise his hand as though to place it on his shoulder, and then apparently think better of it.

One of the less desirable qualities that Dudley Dursley had inherited from his father was a woefully short temper when he found his patience being tested. One of the less desirable qualities that he had inherited from his mother, he often felt, was that of being related to wizards. It was deeply unfortunate just how badly those two things combined, and now the presence in his station of three wizards and two witches, one of whom he still wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t a murder suspect, was pushing him to his breaking point.

“This is _my_ gaffe,” he growled. “ _My_ murder inquiry. And I have already had it up to _here_ with you lot, so if you think I’m going to stand by and let you start _duelling_ or whatever the hell it is you do, you’ve got another thing coming.

“Your temper run in the family, does it Potter?” the dark-haired lawyer asked, though he hadn’t moved, and his eyes were still on the taser. Despite this, there was something about his general demeanour that suggested he was rather enjoying himself.

“Don’t push your luck, Nott.” Harry sighed. “You’ve still got to sign Pansy’s release papers, and you’ll need to be conscious to do that.”

“Hang on -” Ron said, eyes skipping from Harry, to the wizard called Nott, to Pansy, and then settling on Dudley. “Did he say ‘murder inquiry’?”

“Goyle’s dead,” Harry answered him, and Ron’s eyebrows shot up.

“In _Muggle_ London?” he asked. “And your lot picked up _Parkinson_?”

Realising the question was directed at him, Dudley nodded, finally relenting and placing his taser back in his pocket. “She appa-whatever-it-is-ed right into the middle of the crime scene.”

“And _you_ somehow managed to stop her from disapparating right back out?” Ron’s voice had turned even more disbelieving, and Dudley, sensing trouble, looked towards Harry.

“I er - well.” Harry shifted his weight, looking distinctly awkward. “I taught Dudley how to apprehend magical suspects,” he said, eventually.

“Why?” Ron asked, apparently mystified, before his eyes went to Hermione, widened and returned to Harry, his mouth opening into an exaggerated ‘o’ of surprise. “Sweet Merlin’s balls, you have _got_ to be -”

“Maybe best not to discuss it here?” Harry said quickly, inclining his head to where Nott and Pansy were watching the exchange with interest.

“Oh, you think?” Ron growled, but then swiped a hand over his face. “Fine. I need to talk to you about Gringotts anyway so -”

“Gringotts?” Pansy’s voice was sharp. “What about Gringotts?”

Dudley tuned out whatever Ron started to tell Harry in order to watch Pansy, noting the change in her demeanour at the mention of whatever _Gringotts_ was. She was staring at Ron, and the bones of her face were standing out sharply where she had tightened her jaw. Clenched on the lapels of Harry’s coat, her fingers had turned white-knuckled.

“Pans.” Nott’s hands had been back by his sides, but now he laid one on Pansy’s arm. “As your lawyer, I advise you not to say another word.”

Pansy startled at the touch, and then her dark eyes followed Nott’s towards Dudley. She gave a jerky little nod, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. Dudley chanced a glance at Harry, who was listening to whatever Ron was now whispering to him, and apparently hadn’t seen the exchange. Next to the pair of them, however, Hermione’s narrowed eyes were fixed on Pansy.

“Theo,” she said, quietly authoritative. Harry held up a finger to quiet Ron, cutting him off mid-sentence as he looked expectantly at Hermione.

“Yes?” the other lawyer said, returning Hermione’s gaze with an expression of polite enquiry.

“Where do you intend to take Pansy once she’s discharged?”

“I think you know where,” the tall man said cryptically, and Hermione nodded.

“Then why don’t you do that,” she said. “I’ll owl you later.”

“Much obliged,” Nott inclined his head formally, before looking at Dudley again. “Detective Inspector?”

When Dudley looked at her, Hermione gave the slightest of nods, and he motioned Guleed forward from where she had remained motionless in the doorway, watching the whole exchange. “Sahra, if you would -”

She nodded, and set down the coffees she still held. “Come with me, I’ll sort the paperwork.” Guleed paused, took in Pansy’s attire, and then added, “maybe a change of clothes, too,” before beckoning Nott to follow.

He tugged Pansy with him, and after a moment she allowed herself to be led from the room, glancing back over her shoulder only once, wide eyes meeting Dudley’s.

“That was - how do you know she isn’t going to do a runner?” Ron asked in the ensuing silence.

“I don’t think she’s that stupid,” Hermione answered, “and even if she is, Theo isn’t stupid enough to let her.”

“You sound worryingly sure about that,” Ron grumbled, but when Hermione opened her mouth he waved his hand wearily. “Save it, I’ve got to go back to the office, and I really don’t think I want to know right now.” He looked at his watch and grimaced, before looking at Harry. “What’s the protocol on this, does it get passed to the DMLE or -”

“SCD-9 will handle things for now,” Dudley said firmly. “At least until we get the paperwork squared away. As soon as Justin’s done on the scene we’ll let you -”

“Just - what?” Ron brought his fingers to his temples. “Justin?”

“Finch-Fletchley,” Dudley nodded. “Isn’t he one of yours too?” He looked to Harry for confirmation, only belatedly picking up on the violent chopping motion his cousin was miming across his throat. Ron’s colour deepened, and for a moment Dudley thought he was going to start shouting again, but then he mastered his temper with a visible effort of will.

“Harry, mate, I think we need to have a chat,” was all he said.

 

* * *

 _No. 12 Grimmauld Place  
_   
_13th December 2009, 4.17pm_

 

In the end, Ron was at the Ministry for a few hours, so the sky outside the parlour windows was already turning dark before Harry heard his front door bang open and Ron’s stomping footsteps on the stairs.

“Before you -"

“This is un-fucking-believable!” Ron didn’t give Harry a chance to start defending himself, throwing his greatcoat to one side and not even noticing when it landed on one of the Christmas trees that dotted the room. “You’ve got a bloody _nerve,_ Harry Potter.” He stalked across the room towards the fireplace, frowned at the pile of evergreen foliage on the mantle, and turned to walk back the other way. “I’ve got half a mind to haul you back into the DMLE and make you explain everything _there_.”

Harry sighed and pushed his glasses up to sit on top of his head, the better to massage his temples with his thumbs. “I’ve already told you -”

“You didn’t tell me _anything_ about -”

“Because it would have been a conflict of interest for you!” Harry shouted, finally losing his patience and standing up, directly in the path of Ron’s incensed pacing. “You’d have been duty-bound to report it, and I didn’t want to put you in the position of having to keep it quiet, so I didn’t -”

“So you just decided _for_ me then, did you?”

Harry, unable to argue, shrugged helplessly. ‘We didn’t want -”

“Oh Merlin, _we_!” Ron threw him a furious glare. “So how long has Hermione known about this, since it clearly isn’t a conflict of interest for _her_!”

The grim set of Ron’s mouth betrayed the fact that this was one of the aspects of the situation that he found most troubling, and Harry fought the urge to wince as he said, “Well, to be completely fair, she sort of came up with the whole Black & Lupin thing, so -”

“She did WHAT?”

“No, I mean, it was Dudley’s idea actually, but Hermione just -”

“Wait,” Ron’s face took on an expression of actual pain. “This was Dudley’s idea?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, remembering how surprised he himself had been at the time. “Well, he and I had worked together on a few cases after Kingsley and Ogden decided to try closer wizard-Muggle cooperation so -”

Ron held up a hand for him to stop, then sat down heavily in one of the armchairs. “So you’re telling me that this wasn’t just you? This was official?”

Harry nodded, and Ron pinched the bridge of his nose before looking back up at him. “There was an official, Minister-sanctioned DMLE initiative to work with the Muggle police, and I was just somehow never told about it?”

“It only ran for a couple of years,” Harry said weakly. “And it was more of an information-sharing exercise than anything else, until the whole Haringey thing meant that -”

“Shit,” Ron’s mouth dropped open. “Shit, _that’s_ how you knew about that warehouse - and you - but why wouldn’t you tell the Wizengamot, unless -”

“Kingsley and I decided it would be better if we kept it quiet,” Harry nodded. “Emilius was framed - none of it was him - but there just wasn’t enough proof, and if it came out that he’d been working with the Muggles then -”

“But you kept going,” Ron’s head was shaking slowly from side to side, but Harry was unsure whether he knew he was doing it. “Well, fuck the International Statute of Secrecy right? What does it even matter when you’re Harry _bloody_ Potter.”

“Alright, mate,” Harry’s temper sharpened his tone again, and he paused to get a handle on himself before continuing. “It’s not like that at all. Haringey was a massive fucking balls-up, but whoever was behind it is still out there, and it isn’t as though we could just let them get away with it.”

“You’re saying ‘we’ again,” Ron frowned. “Is Kingsley in on this as well?”

“Kingsley’s retired,” Harry replied stonily.

Ron gave a disbelieving snort. “Of course he is, and I’m captain of the Chudley Cannons.” He rubbed his chin aggressively, and then stilled as something else seemed to occur to him. “Does _Andromeda_ know any of this?”

This time Harry did wince. “I think she’s got a decent idea.”

“This is so fucking irresponsible.” Ron’s colour was so high that his ears clashed unpleasantly with his hair. “After everything you said about me not coming with you because of Hugo, and now you’re _knowingly_ endangering yourself -”

“Oh, come off it.” Harry shoved a hand through his hair, knocked his glasses to the floor and bent forward to grab them before he glared at Ron again. “What did you think I’ve been doing with myself for the last two years, taking tea with society wives?”

“You said you were consulting!” Ron yelled. “I thought you meant like - like the way Malfoy -”

“Are you kidding me? You really thought the Ministry might have me back as some sort of Special Advisor after I told them where they could stick their -”

“I don’t know!” Ron shouted, and then, quieter, “I don’t know, alright? I knew you must be doing something, but I didn’t think it would be this.”

They stared at one another for a moment in uneasy silence, and then Ron blinked, and seemed to properly register his surroundings for the first time. “Mate, did a lutin explode in here, or -”

Harry was spared his answer by the rattling of china as Kreacher apparated unsteadily into the room, bearing a tray laden with tea things.

“Kreacher is glad Master and the blood traitor is stopping their infernal noise,” he crowed, as he set out china cups and saucers with a spectacularly ugly pattern of Thestrals wearing holly crowns. Harry assumed these were another find from the attic.

“Kreacher is reminding Master that he isn’t a teenager anymore if you please,” the elf went on, “and is also making mince pies, because the Mudblood One is saying she isn’t wanting any lunch -”

“Kreacher,” Harry said wearily, as he sank back down onto the sofa. “I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call her that.”

“The Mudblood One says to Kreacher that if Master forbids him to speak freely as he chooses is an incursion of Kreacher’s civil liberties,” the elf replied blithely, without even looking up from where he was piling pastries onto a plate for Ron.

“Why?” Ron shot Harry a baffled look as he accepted the plate and cup that Kreacher handed him. “Why would she give him advice about his - his _liberties_ when he insists on being so - so - why are you looking at me like that?” he asked nervously, spotting Kreacher poised at his elbow.

The elf looked towards Harry, and then nodded his head eagerly at Ron.

“Christ,” Harry muttered. Kreacher’s timing was impeccable, as ever. “Ron, Kreacher would like to know if you’d like to spend Christmas with us?”

“What?” Ron spluttered. “Here?”

“No,” Harry sighed. “On the fucking moon. Of _course_ here.”

“What about -”

“You’re all invited, obviously,” Harry said. “Come on, give your mum a chance to put her feet up for once in her life.”

Ron stared at him for a beat longer, as though trying to work out whether Harry had lost his mind. “Are you sure -”

“Of course he’s sure, and it would be lovely to have a Christmas here, wouldn’t it Kreacher?”

Hermione had entered the parlour through the door that led to the library and flung herself onto the opposite end of the sofa from Harry.

“The Mudblood One is quite right,” Kreacher nodded as he scurried over to Hermione with a cup of tea. “The house is revealing Mistress Violetta’s decorations, and so is clearly wanting to celebrate Yule, even if it must be with blood traitors and Mudbloods.”

“Charming,” Ron sighed, taking a bite of his mince pie. He chewed ruminatively for a moment, and then squinted at the remainder of the pastry in his hand before looking up at Kreacher. “Go on then," he sighed. "Mum could use a break.”

Kreacher’s expression turned transcendent, and he actually clapped his hands with glee before disapparating to Merlin knew where, presumably to start making his preparations.

Harry shook his head and reached for another mince pie, but froze when Ron jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t think for one second that this means you’re off the hook.”

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione sighed. “You know why we had to keep the agency a secret from you. It isn’t exactly as though this is something the Head Auror can sign off on, is it?”

“Right,” Ron relented eventually. There was a pause while he simply looked at the pair of them, and then he gave himself a little shake. “You said ‘the agency’?”

“Did I?” Hermione asked. She glanced at Harry, who gave a resigned nod before finally taking his second mince pie. “Well, after the official link with the DMLE was terminated, Dudley needed to put something on the invoices when he called Harry in on a case, so we decided to incorporate.”

“So you’re partners in this little private detecting enterprise, are you?” Ron asked.

“Well,” Hermione said impatiently. “Firstly, it’s not a ‘private detecting enterprise,’ Harry is a _consulting_ detective while I manage the administrative side of things -”

“Oh, great,” Ron interrupted her. “So that was you ‘managing the admin’ when you impersonated a lawyer earlier?” He set down his plate in order to make air quotes with his fingers, and Harry once again regretted having introduced him to _Friends_. “I don’t know about Muggles, but if you tried to pull that a stunt like that at the DMLE -”

“I wasn’t impersonating anything,” Hermione shot back. “I’m a fully qualified Muggle solicitor.”

“Hold your hippogriffs.” Ron’s face scrunched into an expression of incredulity and Hermione rolled her eyes. “Since when?”

“Since I decided it might be useful when I joined the Ministry,” she said, and Ron’s face took on a slightly pained expression.

That had been just after they’d broken up, Harry remembered, and it had taken a couple of years for them to get back onto an even footing. Given how careful Hermione was to not advertise her Muggle competencies, he wasn’t really surprised that Ron hadn’t known.

Still, it _was_ a little awkward.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, keeping her eyes on her teacup as she lifted it to her lips. Harry watched as the thestrals preened. “Black & Lupin is a very discreet enterprise.”

“Black and...so that wasn’t just something you made up for the Muggles?”

“Not so much,” Harry confirmed, moving his eyes away from Hermione’s oddly fascinating mouth to look at Ron. “It sounds official enough for Muggle business though, and of course if we were to start operating more openly in the wizarding world the names carry a cachet without attracting the sort of attention that ‘Potter & Granger’ would.”

“Yeah,” Ron said slowly. “But like, are you _allowed_ to call yourselves Black & Lupin? I mean -”

“I was Sirius’s legal heir, and the executor of Remus’s estate,” Harry shrugged. “It’s legit, added to which I’m sure they’d find it pretty funny.”

“And you can’t deny that the combination of jurisprudential and law-enforcement expertise makes us a pretty effective team.” Hermione smirked slightly. The mischievous expression suited her, Harry thought, and found himself smirking back at her.

“I’m sure it does,” Ron said darkly. “I’m just not entirely convinced that you aren’t an _illegally_ effective team, seeing as you’re operating a magical company in the Muggle sphere.”

“I think you’ll find that it’s a grey area, actually.” Hermione was almost glowing with self-satisfaction now. “There was a loophole in the last amendment to the International Statute of Secrecy which means that -”

“Didn’t you draft that amendment?” Ron frowned.

“I might have done,” Hermione said airily, reaching for a mince pie. “But it was Malfoy who tabled it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is probably the last of my 'surprise, bitch!' introductions. For now. You never know who else will turn up...


	7. Revelation Principle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed a day yesterday! I'm away with family for the weekend and it's messing with my editing schedule...

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_

_13th December 2009, 7.44pm_

After another round of shouting, this time about Malfoy, and then another two cups of tea and three more mince pies, Ron had finally left Grimmauld Place, muttering something about needing to face the music at home. Hermione didn’t think he’d forgiven them just yet, but she’d certainly seen him take things worse.

Once he’d gone, she and Harry had wasted no time before pulling out the old Haringey files and starting to sift through them, looking for anything that might provide a clue as to why the same person who had gone on a week-long killing spree two years ago might have now decided to rob a bank. Over the past couple of years Harry had managed to accumulate plenty of material in addition to his and Ogden’s handwritten notes: there were reports from the DMLE and the police; stills from CCTV footage; newspaper clippings; even minutes from closed sessions of the Wizengamot that Kingsley had somehow ‘acquired’.

The lack of coherent organisation was enough to make Hermione want to scream, but instead she had simply cast a cross-referencing charm that she had developed while she was studying for her LPC. Watching the Self-Writing Quill jotting down a neat index, however, she got the feeling that whatever they were looking for was going to prove rather more esoteric than anything the charm was likely to turn up.

As they had worked, the sky outside the windows had gradually deepened from twilight blue to the deep brown-black of the city night. Inside, the study was cosy and warm, bathed in the glow of never-melting candles. Hermione stifled a yawn, and scrubbed at her eyes with one hand.

“Don’t tell me Hermione Granger is getting bored of studying.” She looked up to see that Harry was smiling at her: that small, soft smile that he never seemed to direct at anyone else.

“I must have been over all of this at least ten times before,” she sighed. “And your handwriting never fails to give me a headache.”

“Sorry about that,” Harry sounded far more amused than apologetic, and Hermione watched as he frowned slightly, turned back a page in Ogden’s notebook, and then scribbled something down on the tatty bit of parchment in front of him.

“Found anything new?” she asked, pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands, more out of habit than because she was cold. The jumper was an old one of Harry’s (the Hungarian Horntail design on the front was one of Molly’s more ambitious efforts) and it smelled quite strongly of broom polish, in a way that Hermione found immensely comforting.

“Same old, really,” Harry sighed. “From what Ron said, the injuries are consistent enough for them to consider the two linked, but beyond that I’m not seeing anything else that might suggest it’s the same perp.”

“How soon do you reckon they’ll know if anything’s been stolen?”

Harry grimaced. “It depends if it’s something the goblins are ready to admit was there in the first place.”

“God.” Hermione sat back in her chair and rolled her shoulders. “And people wonder why I say improved Beings rights would make things easier for everyone.”

“Ah,” Harry said. “You’re forgetting that, as a Muggle-born, you can’t possibly be expected to understand the intricacies of the situ- _ow_ ,” he grinned, rubbing at his shoulder where the balled-up piece of parchment that Hermione had thrown at him had bounced harmlessly away. “See how quickly you resort to mindless acts of violence?”

“Must be my inherently savage nature,” Hermione sighed airily. “You can take the girl from the Muggles -”

“But you can’t take the Muggle from the girl,” Harry finished for her. “I did think you might murder Malfoy when he said that.”

“So did I, for a second,” Hermione nodded. She’d threatened to break his nose again instead, and had been delighted to see Draco’s customary sangfroid waver, just for a single, thoroughly gratifying, moment.

From Malfoy, her thoughts skipped to the interview with Pansy that had been scheduled for tomorrow morning. Theo had replied quickly to Hermione’s owl earlier, confirming that ‘his client’ (as he insisted on referring to her) was now safely installed at Malfoy Manor, and that the elves had been given strict instructions that she wasn’t to be allowed out of their sight. He’d also returned Harry’s coat, since Pansy had apparently rejected the Muggle clothes that Sahra had offered her, which was just so bloody typical that Hermione could have -

“You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I still don’t understand why Pansy felt the need to be naked.” Her hair had finally worked itself free of the french twist she had wrestled it into earlier, and as she spoke she gathered it up and wound it into a bun, using her wand like a giant hairpin in a quirk that she had regrettably picked up from Luna.

“Just to fuck with us, wasn’t it?” Harry said, without looking up from the incident report that he was now reading. “Dudley didn’t know what to do with himself.”

“Maybe,” Hermione nodded. Something was nagging at her, though she couldn’t say what, precisely. She recalled Pansy’s raised eyebrow, the careful consideration in her gaze.

_That would qualify as a more interesting question._

She was missing something, Hermione knew, and it was going to drive her mad if she didn’t figure out what it was. Grimacing, she shoved the stack of Haringey files to one side, reaching instead for the folder that Dudley had passed her before they’d left the police station. There was a transcript of the interview, photographs from the crime scene, and the mugshots that had been taken of Pansy when she’d first been processed by the police, which Hermione drew out and laid on the desk in front of her.

It was strange to see a photograph of someone from the Wizarding World that wasn’t moving. Pansy’s dark blue eyes stared opaquely out from the paper, her face managing to be both coolly neutral and ever-so-slightly smug. Hermione had _hated_ Pansy at school - really, viscerally hated her, in the way that you can only truly hate a bully - but the woman she had seen today, for all her posturing, had seemed oddly vulnerable.

She kept thinking of the look on Pansy’s face when she’d heard the word _Gringotts_. It had meant something to her, that much was obvious. Hermione didn’t know her well enough to be sure, but she’d seen similar expressions on the faces of clients over the years, so if she had to  guess, she would have felt reasonably confident in saying that Pansy was _scared_.

Hermione considered this as she thumbed the photograph in her hand, noting the square neckline of the dress; the way the heavy fabric lay smoothly against Pansy’s collarbone.

“This looks expensive,” she said thoughtfully. “ _Why_ would she vanish an expensive dress? What purpose would that serve?”

“No idea,” Harry sighed, sitting back and stretching his arms upwards in a way that told Hermione his ribs were finally fully healed. “Maybe she didn’t want to get Muggle germs on it.”

“Maybe there was something on it already,” Hermione said absently, and then blinked as she played her own words back to herself, looking up to see that Harry had frozen with his hands still reaching towards the ceiling.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “You don’t think -”

“That she was disposing of evidence?” Hermione could have smacked herself for not realising sooner. “That -” she bit back the word.

“But why the hell would she draw attention to it?” Harry asked, pushing himself up from his chair to start pacing around the study. “She _wanted_ me to ask her, remember?” Hermione watched as he ran his hands through his hair, a familiar gesture of frustration that transformed it from disorderly to utterly wild.

“A lot of this doesn’t make sense,” she sighed, frowning as she rose from her chair too, before folding her arms and leaning her weight against the edge of the gigantic desk. “Dudley said the police found Goyle’s body after an anonymous tip, right?”

“Right,” Harry nodded. “And Pansy maintains that Goyle had asked her to visit him that morning.”

“How does she know it was him?” Hermione wondered aloud. “What if it was someone else - someone who wanted -”

“Another set up?” Harry asked sharply, turning to stare at her. “Surely it can’t all be the same -”

“You didn’t see her face when Ron brought up Gringotts,” Hermione said, watching Harry’s eyebrows rise.

“What are the chances this whole thing with Goyle is a sideshow?” he asked softly, and Hermione shook her head, unsure how to answer him. Harry bit his lip, looking down at something on the table, then slid back into his chair as he picked up one of the pieces of paper he had been studying. “Dudley said one of the first officers on the scene has disappeared,” he said slowly.

“Disappeared?” Hermione asked, uncrossing her arms and coming round the desk to peer at the paper in Harry’s hand.

_PC Martha Fitzgibbons - 27 - currently unaccounted for -_

“Dudley’s sure he saw her in the doorway when he arrived?” Hermione asked, skimming the report over Harry’s shoulder.

“I reckon so. He mentioned that the other PC - Marshall?” Harry frowned, squinting at his cousin’s handwriting. “Marshall, yeah. Dudley said he seemed confused - couldn’t remember that he’d been with anyone else when he responded to the call.”

“A  _Confundus_?” Hermione suggested. “Or Obliviation maybe? Look - it says here the DCI didn’t remember there being anyone else there either.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry said. “But why not Obliviate Dudley and Sahra too? Surely if she wanted to -”

“How long’s she been on the beat?” Hermione asked, and Harry shook his head, reaching for his phone.

“I’ll ask Dudley, he’ll be able to look it up,” he said. “But if she’s a plant, that’s a lot of effort to go to.”

“Ask him if he can send a picture as well,” Hermione said absently, still reading. “It says here he didn’t notice she’d gone until he’d already got hold of Pansy. What if that’s what Fitzgibbons was waiting to confirm?”

“Yeah,” Harry scratched at his cheek in a way that told Hermione he was deep in thought. “That’s a fairly simple command to follow, right? Wait until this person appears, then report back before -” his voice trailed away, and Hermione looked down to see him gripping the edge of the desk tightly.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Oh - Harry - yes you’re right.” She wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her chin in the angle of his neck.

“Well, at least it looks like there might be a link after all,” Harry sighed unhappily. He transferred his grip from the desk to Hermione’s arms.

She’d arrived at Grimmauld Place barely thirty seconds after receiving Harry’s patronus on that awful evening, almost two years ago now. Hermione could still remember the hollowness in his voice when he described how Ogden had met his eyes as he’d walked backwards to the edge of the roof; the look of resigned horror on his face as Harry had begged him to _try_ \- to throw it off, the way they’d been trained; how Emilius had simply said, “Too strong,” before he took another step back, this time into empty air.

Harry dropped his chin so that his mouth was resting against her forearm, and Hermione felt gooseflesh rise across her skin as he exhaled heavily.

“‘M ok,” he mumbled, and she nodded, feeling his stubble scrape against her cheek as she did so.

“I know,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulders a little tighter for a moment before she let go and straightened. Harry turned in his seat to look up at her, the candlelight playing across the angles of his face and reflecting in the lenses of his glasses so that his gaze seemed to literally burn.

“I want to get this bastard,” he said. “Whoever’s behind this, I want to get them, and I want them put away before they can hurt anyone else.”

“Let’s do that then,” Hermione replied quietly.

 


	8. Allocation of Goods

_Ottery St Catchpole_  
  
_14th December 2009, 6.28am_

 

It was still dark when Ron woke up the next morning. For some reason he'd been dreaming of Hogwarts, and was confused not to have been woken by Neville's snores, or Harry's frenzied nocturnal muttering. He blinked up at the white-painted ceiling, half-expecting it to morph into red velvet hangings, and then Callie murmured something incomprehensible and turned over, flinging her arm across his chest.

"Ow," Ron said mildly. Callie lifted her head to glare at him blearily through one eye.

"Coffee?" he asked, and Callie groaned.

"What time is it? she mumbled, though the words were half-smothered by the pillow she'd buried her face in.

Ron turned his head so that she wouldn't see him smiling as he reached for his wand. "Half six," he replied, once he'd cast a quick  _Tempus_ charm. "Do you want -"

"Fuck off," Callie huffed, her Virginia accent turning the words to a drawl as she wriggled deeper into the bed, tugging the duvet away from Ron to tuck it more tightly around herself.

"Well, that's nice." Ron sat up and stretched. "You know, my mother would be horrified if she knew how you spoke to me in private." He shivered as the cold air hit his exposed shoulders, and summoned his dressing gown from across the room to pull it on.

" _I'd_ be horrified if Molly knew how we talk to each other in private," Callie pointed out, rolling onto her side to watch as Ron crossed the room to peer out from behind the curtain. "What time do you need to be at the office?"

"Eight," he sighed, letting the curtain drop back over the view of the snow-lined main road through Ottery St Catchpole and turning back to look at Callie. "Do you have time to drop Hugo at Mum and Dad's before the morning pitch?"

"And enjoy another round of 'a mother's place is in the home'?'' Callie shoved herself out of bed and stumbled across the room to wrap her arms around Ron's waist. "I can't think of a better way to start a Monday." She turned her face up towards his and smiled, with her eyes closed, her long lashes grazing her cheeks. "Morning, Mr Weasley."

"Good morning, Mrs 'taking a man's name is patriarchal erasure.'" Ron pressed a kiss to Callie's mouth, then coughed. "Ugh."

"Hey!" Callie leaned back and swatted him on the arm. "You're not exactly fresh yourself."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, winding an arm around her and pressing a kiss into her mussed hair. "But, unlike some people,  _I_  didn't drink an entire bottle of elf wine while waiting to ambush my husband last night."

Callie snickered against his shoulder. "That'll teach you to leave Dean in charge of press conferences."

"He and I will be having words," Ron said darkly. "And anyway, I thought we agreed that we were  _even_?"

From where she still stood in the semicircle of his arm, Callie gave him a crafty look. "Only because Hermione's much better at managing the press than you are."

"Maybe you should be married to  _her_  then," Ron groused, and Callie laughed again.

"Not my type," she sniffed. "I mean, you and I have a lot in common, but not -"

"Oh no, please, shut up," Ron sighed, pushing her off gently. "I'm going to make coffee, and  _you're_  not getting any."

"First you withhold stories, and now coffee?" Callie placed a hand over her heart. "Ron, honey, I think we might need to have a serious -"

There was a yell and a heavy  _thunk_ from Hugo's bedroom, and Ron's finger flew to his nose. "Not it!"

"Asshole," Callie sighed, grabbing her own dressing gown and jostling Ron as she opened the bedroom door and stepped onto the landing. "Did I hear a boggart? I've heard the best way to deal with boggarts is by TICKLING -"

Ron shook his head, yawning again as he made his way downstairs to a soundtrack of Hugo's shrieks of laughter.

As usual, the kitchen was an explosion of organised chaos, but Callie's taste for sparkle and kitsch meant that the usual mess of toys, broken quills and bits of parchment now vied for space with glittering holly leaves, fat little Father Christmas figurines and brightly-coloured Muggle fairy lights. There were also two empty wine glasses sat on the slightly wonky table that Arthur had built for them as a wedding present, and Ron smiled to himself as he went to clear them.

" _You're holding out on me," Callie slurred, her finger pointing just to the left of his nose. "I can tell. 'M a great journalist. Got a nose for the - for the words. Won awards."_

_Ron grabbed his own glass from the cupboard, lifted the wine bottle, then frowned to see it was almost empty. "And did you win those awards before or after you agreed never to publish anything to do with Black & Lupin LLP?"_

_Callie's wine-stained lips spread into a grin before she clapped a hand over her mouth, dark eyes dancing. When Ron scowled at her she just laughed, before reaching for the wine bottle. "Gimme."_

"Daddy!" Hugo's voice broke into Ron's reverie, and he turned to see Callie stood in the doorway with the toddler on her hip.

At three and a half, Hugo was beginning to look like a real person rather than just a small, pink blob. He had inherited Callie's dark eyes and delicate nose, but his liberal smattering of freckles and bright red hair were pure Weasley.

"Well hello there!" Ron handed Callie a vial of hangover potion and plucked Hugo from her arms. "I thought Mummy was catching a boggart?"

"Not a boggart!" Hugo laughed, "It was me!"

"What are the chances?" Ron asked with exaggerated surprise. Behind Hugo, Callie downed the potion and then brought her hands together in front of her chest, mouthing  _thank you_.

They'd met six years ago, when Ron was still a junior Auror and Callie was freshly arrived from the U.S., where she had just graduated from Ilvermorny. Luna had offered her a two month trial as a staff writer, and within the first week Callie had worked out that if she just followed Ron around she could use his brain's unfortunate inability to function properly in her presence to take all the work out of breaking stories.

Of course, once they'd made things official they'd had to come to an agreement about how much they could share with one another in a professional context. Ron had thought that this was mostly to protect him, but he should have realised that Callie, smart as she was, would find a way to turn things to her advantage.

Just as he was thinking this, she sidled up behind him and laid her head against his shoulder. "So, what have you got on today?" she asked innocently.

"Don't even try it," Ron said, trying, despite the joint encumbrances of toddler and wife, to charm the stove to heat some milk for Hugo. "You're on thin enough ice as it is."

"How can I know what sort of ice I'm on if you won't give me a clue?" Callie wheedled now.

"Why don't you ask Hermione to give you a clue?" Ron snorted, transferring the milk to a cup and passing it to Hugo. "Isn't that what she does?"

Callie only knew as much as Hermione had told her, which was that she and Harry had registered the company to give her more bandwidth when representing clients who had breached the International Statute of Secrecy. In return for her not snooping any further, Hermione had offered Callie first refusal on stories about and interviews with her clients.

"I figured if she hadn't told you herself she probably had a good excuse," Callie said, not unreasonably, as she rubbed her cheek against his towelling dressing gown like a cat.

"It was a terrible excuse," Ron grumbled, flicking his wand to set the kettle to boil. "It was a terrible excuse and I'm still furious with the pair of them."

"Harry too?" Callie asked, and Ron pressed his lips together. She had been fully aware that Hermione hadn't told her told most of the story, and angry as he was at being left in the dark, Ron had been careful not to give her any more of it.

"Being furious with Harry is one of my default positions," he said, hedging the question as he turned around. Now half-sandwiched between his parents, Hugo began to wriggle until Callie stepped back, and Ron set him down on one of the chairs.

When he straightened up, Callie was giving him a  _look_. Ron sighed, and passed her the mug of coffee that he had just poured.

"Drink that," he told her, "and stop asking questions."

* * *

_Malfoy Manor_  
  
_14th December 2009, 8.57am_

 

"Where are we?" Dudley asked, squinting up at the high gables of the pearl-grey manor house.

"Deepest, darkest Wiltshire," Harry answered with a scowl.

"Emphasis on the  _dark_ ," Hermione added blithely, and Harry, out of habit, glanced over to check that she was alright. Aside from her slight frown she appeared to be fine; certainly, she wasn't pale and shaking the way she had been the first time she had come to the Manor to interview Malfoy after the War.

Above them, the sky was grey and heavy in a way that promised snow, and the sweeping lawns on either side of the gravel drive were white with frost. Somewhere off to their left Harry heard a haunting cry, and then a spectral shape appeared momentarily from between the tall pine trees, before dashing back into the shadows of the woods.

"What the fuck was that?" Dudley asked. His face, already green-tinged after the apparition from Grimmauld Place, now appeared to have lost all its colour.

"Albino peacock," Harry answered wearily. "And if you're wondering what sort of prick keeps albino peacocks, the answer is _that_ sort of prick." He nodded towards the front doors of the Manor, which had opened to reveal Draco Malfoy leaning languidly against the stone doorframe, his arms folded and his lip curled extravagantly.

"Potter," he drawled when they got near enough to hear without him needing to raise his voice. "Do my eyes deceive me or have you actually brought a Muggle to besmirch the hallowed halls of my -"

"Stop it, Draco." Daphne appeared behind her husband, elbowing him out of the way. "Ignore him, please," she entreated, staring earnestly at Dudley. "He's really not nearly as awful as he'd like you to think he is. We're delighted to have you, and it's terribly good of you to take the time, your job must be very demanding."

"I -" Dudley glanced at Harry, who shrugged. "Yes?"

"Of course, of course," Daphne said, turning in a flurry of tasteful emerald silk and beckoning them to follow. "Please come inside."

The entrance hall of Malfoy Manor had been decorated with wreaths and garlands of holly and ivy, twined together and glittering with real frost. In the middle of the floor, below the vast chandelier, was a gigantic Christmas tree, lit with hundreds upon hundreds of real fairy lights.

Harry caught Hermione's eye as Dudley gaped upwards. "Are those -"

"You can leave your coats with Digby," Daphne said, looking around and then frowning slightly. " _Digby_!" she yelled, and Harry saw Dudley jump as an elf apparated into the grand entrance hall.

"You called, Mistress?"

"Please take our guests' coats," Daphne asked, before turning round to them. When Dudley bent towards his shoes she started forward. "Please don't worry! Even with all the warming charms we can cast, the floors are  _still_  cold."

"The price one pays for finest Italian marble," Draco sniffed, having taken up a position at Daphne's shoulder.

"Christ, what a hardship," Harry muttered as he pulled off his coat and handed it to the increasingly overburdened Digby. "My heart bleeds for you."

"Be quiet, Potter," Malfoy sighed. "You look as ragged as ever; anyone would think  _you_  were the Muggle."

"Hilarious," Harry countered. "Have you been practicing your quips?"

"Are they always like this?" Harry heard Dudley ask Hermione.

"I don't  _practice_ Potter, I want to give you half a chance at -"

"Well it's not like you ever needed chances when -"

"It turns out the only thing more irritating than them hating one another is them getting along," Hermione replied to Dudley. "Still, less blood to clean up."

"Blood?!" Dudley repeated, and Harry and Draco both paused trading increasingly childish insults to glance at him.

"How about it, Potter?" Draco asked, with a sly smile. "Want to show your cousin what you're made of?"

"I'd love to, Malfoy, but since we're on a tight schedule I don't think I can spare the ten seconds it would take to wipe the floor with you."

"No one will be wiping  _any_  floors with anyone," Daphne said firmly, having dispatched Digby. "Now, we're just waiting for the -" a pleasant chiming sound echoed through the hall, and she turned expectantly to the door "- Aurors."

Even from a distance Ron and Dean were clearly identifiable as they jogged their way up the drive in the direction of the house.

"Bloody hell it's cold!" Dean swore when they reached the door. "Alright Daphne, Malfoy?"

"Are you referring to both of us or just my wife?" Draco asked, prompting Daphne to sigh and lay a delicate hand on his sleeve.

"What Draco  _means_  to say," she said pointedly, "is welcome to our home, and we're very grateful to you for coming all this way. Digby!"

This time the elf appeared on the other side of the room, and Harry stifled a laugh as Dudley jumped again and swore.

"Yes Mistress?"

"Would you take these gentlemen's coats as well, and then tell Delphina that we're ready for refreshments in the yellow drawing room?"

"As you command, Mistress." The elf bowed before reaching for Ron's coat.

"Theodore and Pansy are up there already, so if you'd all like to follow me," Daphne motioned gracefully towards the stairs. Hermione stepped up beside her and started to talk in a low voice as they ascended, followed by the odd trio of Dudley, Draco and Dean.

"Alright?" Harry said to Ron as they brought up the rear together.

"Smashing," he replied, frowning at Draco's back. "Why did we have to do this here again?"

"No physical evidence at the scene to place Pansy there," Harry shrugged. "She's only a person of interest for the time being, so if she's willing to cooperate we have to meet her halfway."

"I sat my Auror exams too, you know," Ron huffed. "I meant why  _here_? I hate this place."

"Well, I think we've all had a traumatic experience at Malfoy Manor at one time or another," Harry said lightly. "I guess you could almost say it puts us on an equal footing."

Ron shook his head, but not before Harry saw the edge of his smile. "I think you've finally cracked, mate."

Before Harry could say anything more, Daphne led them into a large, brightly-lit room that was -

"Well, it's certainly yellow," Dudley said.

"Cheerful, don't you think?" Daphne beamed. "And here's -"

"Oh, look," Pansy said, standing up from a couch the colour of dandelion petals. "The gang's all here." She was fully dressed today, much to Harry's relief.

"Remember what we talked about?" Theo sighed, buttoning his suit jacket as he stood up next to her. "The part about being civil in particular?"

"When am I ever not?" Pansy asked, stepping around a low coffee table and holding out her hand to Dudley. "Detective Inspector."

Dudley frowned down at the tops of Pansy's knuckles for a moment, before taking her hand and shaking it firmly. "Thank you for agreeing to a follow-up interview," he said gruffly, and Harry saw his cheeks turn pink.

"Surely it's the least I could do," Pansy gave a winning smile that faded slightly when she turned to where Dean and Ron now stood together. "Auror Thomas, Auror Weasley. Anything you'd like to accuse me of before we get started, or are you saving wild conjecture for later?"

"Pans!" Daphne admonished her sharply, and Pansy rolled her eyes, but gave a patient little nod.

"Fine. Potter, Granger, lovely to see you both again as well. Since we're pretending this is a social call, may I offer you some refreshment?"

She gestured to the console table by the far wall, which appeared to have been piled high with the makings of a continental breakfast.

There was an uneasy silence, and then Hermione sighed deeply before striding over to the table. "I, for one, would love a cup of tea."

Once everyone had helped themselves to drinks and pastries, they settled down on various chairs and sofas (although Draco elected to stand by a window). As everyone fell expectantly quiet, Pansy set down her coffee cup and folded her hands primly in her lap. Her dress was the same deep blue as her eyes, and she looked around the group with an expression of polite enquiry. "Who wants to go first?"

"I think I will, if no one else minds?" Ron said. "Is there anything you can tell us that you didn't feel comfortable revealing when interviewed by representatives of a private concern acting on behalf of the Muggle police?"

"Goodness Weasley," Pansy blinked. "You're nearly as blunt as Potter."

Ron looked sharply at Harry, who spread his hands innocently. "Right," Ron said. "But if you wouldn't mind actually answering the question?"

Pansy's eyes narrowed. "No," she said. "There is nothing that I can tell you that I didn't feel  _comfortable_  revealing before."

Hearing the subtle emphasis, Harry frowned, but it was Dudley who sat forward. "Is there anything you can tell us now that you  _couldn't_ tell us when interviewed yesterday?"

"Oh very good, Detective Inspector," Pansy nodded. "Very good indeed." She looked behind her. "Remind me, Draco, is the Manor warded against the Invocation of Loyalty?"

Beside her on the settee Theo swore and spilled his coffee onto his trousers. Daphne appeared frozen by shock, and over by the window Draco had turned as white as his hair. Next to Harry, Ron dropped his head into his hands. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Sorry, guys," Dean said, his voice sounding loud in the sudden silence. "But the Invocation of what now?"

Harry glanced at Hermione, only to see that she looked as clueless as him, which meant that whatever Pansy was talking about, it probably wasn't written down. He didn't have long to think about this however, because at that moment Draco yanked Daphne behind him and pulled out his wand.

"Explain yourself," he spat, pointing it at Pansy.

"Whoa!" Dean said, "Easy there, Malfoy, no need for -"

"No, actually," Ron said, and Harry was surprised to see that he, too, had drawn his wand. "For once, he has a point."

Pansy had gone very still, her hands resting on top of her thighs. "I don't want anyone to get hurt -"

"That's good of you," said Theo. He hadn't yet drawn his wand, but he was contorting himself away from Pansy as though she was carrying something infectious. "Doesn't quite match up with the plan to invoke a blood curse though, so -"

"I'm not invoking it," Pansy said impatiently, "I'm under it."

"Oh," Ron snorted, "even fucking  _better_. Are you -"

"Hey!" Hermione said, pulling out her wand and shooting white sparks from the end. "Can we just - are you an immediate threat?" she said, turning to Pansy.

"As long as the Manor's warded, then no," she replied, eyes still darting between Draco and Ron. Harry had the impression she was trying to work out who to be more worried about.

"Fine," Hermione sighed. "Draco,  _is_ the Manor warded against - against Invocations of Loyalty?"

"Yes," he nodded slowly, without putting up his wand. "But if she's already under it and she's placed under enough pressure -"

"The wards will help me fight it long enough to get out," Pansy said, her voice urgent. "Believe me, Draco, I wouldn't have let Theo bring me here unless I had to."

"Right," Hermione nodded. "Well, that sounds reasonable enough. Malfoy?"

Draco said nothing for a moment, but then he relaxed his posture slightly. "Fine."

Apparently he had also released his hold on Daphne, as she popped her head over his shoulder. "Oh  _Pans_ ," she said. "That's awful, are you al-"

"Ahem," Dudley cleared his throat. "Sorry, I know a lot of this is going to go over my head, but I don't think I'm the only one who doesn't know what this Invo-thingy is?"

"Thank you!" Dean said, before looking at Theo. "You said something about blood curses?"

"I might have simplified slightly," Theo sighed. "The Invocation of Loyalty is an extremely old-school bit of Pureblood power-brokering gone wrong."

"Sounds promising," Harry said. "Why haven't I heard of it?"

"More to the point," said Hermione, "why haven't  _I_ heard of it?"

"Granger you're such a  _swot_." Despite the tension still evident in his posture, Theo managed to grin delightedly at Hermione, making Harry feel like punching him even more than he usually did.

"They destroyed the records of it," Ron sighed. He was eyeing Pansy as though she were liable to explode. "It's really, really bad. Like an  _Imperius_ , but much stronger, because the magic of it works through the bearer's blood."

"How do you know about it?" Hermione asked bluntly.

"Bill taught us all. One of the goblins at the bank made him ward his house against it." Ron shrugged. "I know everyone always forgets the Weasleys are Sacred Twenty-Eight -"

"We don't forget," Draco protested. "We're just  _appalled_."

"- but  _we are_ ," Ron continued testily, "so we're vulnerable."

"Wait," Harry said. "It only affects Sacred Twenty-Eight bloodlines?"

"Can only be cast by or on descendants of the lines who were represented at the first conference of Wizarding Britain in 1364," Theo said. "But Muggle blood dilutes it pretty quickly, so you're probably fine, Potter."

"Why did no one use this as a defence at trial after Voldemort -"

"It dilutes," Hermione said slowly. "His dad was a Muggle, remember?"

"That, and the working has been lost for centuries," said Draco. "It was destroyed when wizards finally came to the startling realisation that your friends today might be your enemies tomorrow. Or vice versa," he conceded, tilting his head towards Harry.

"In any case," Ron said, "it's a pretty fucking stupid idea to give someone that much power over you."

"Thanks for that," Pansy sighed. "I hadn't realised."

"How does it work?" Hermione asked.

"It bends you to the caster's will," Pansy looked down at her lap. "As long as their attention is on you, you can't act except in the way they want."

"What happens if you disobey?" Harry said.

"You can't," Pansy shook her head. "And if you try - well. You saw Goyle."

"Eyes?" Draco asked sharply, and Pansy nodded.

"OK," said Dudley. "What's the eye thing about?"

"It's a mark of disloyalty!" Hermione clapped a hand to her forehead. "You have to look someone in the eye to swear an oath. What?" she said, when everyone looked at her. " _That_ much I have read about, why didn't I think of it sooner?"

"There you are," Pansy said unhappily. "And I was stupid enough to get it laid on me."

"How  _did_ that happen?" Ron asked. "If you lot all know what the Invocation is, surely you'd -"

"They took me to dinner," Pansy sighed. "In Rome. Said they'd heard I was living there and wondered how I was." She wound her hands together, picking nervously at one thumbnail. "I don't know quite how it happened, but I one moment I'd cut my hand on a glass, and the next thing I knew they'd done something - weird - and I couldn't - everything was -"

She shook her head, then swallowed tightly. "I knew what they wanted me to do. And I couldn't do anything else."

"And is that still the case?" Dean asked. "Is you sitting here, telling us -"

"No!" Pansy shook her head. "I didn't - they've been distracted - enough for me to call Theo and get him to bring me here, where the wards might help. It's always strongest when they know where I am, so until they work it out -"

"But you're still following basic commands," Harry said. "Like vanishing the dress yesterday."

"I wondered whether you'd realised," Pansy nodded. "They bought it for me, so it was a connection."

"I'm guessing you're not allowed to tell us who 'they' are, either?" Ron asked.

"No," Pansy gave a hollow laugh. "It's - it's one person, I can give you that."

"Helpful," Dean said, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

"You said they've been distracted," Hermione said, glancing at Harry. "Do you think they were distracted by what happened at Gringotts?"

Pansy's eyes widened, and her throat worked, but she didn't say anything; didn't even move.

"I would take that as a yes, if I were you," Theo remarked.

"Would this Invocation thing have worked on Emilius Ogden?" Harry asked, sitting forward.

"Who?" Pansy asked, dragging her eyes away from Hermione, and frowning.

"His mother was a Fawley, wasn't she?" Daphne said, looking at Harry, who nodded. "Then if his father had pureblood in him too, I'd say yes."

"Jesus Christ," Harry groaned. "No wonder he couldn't throw it off. I thought it was an Imperius,  _why_ is none of this stuff taught -"

"The more people who know, the more danger it poses," Ron shrugged. "Bill said I wasn't to tell anyone at all, even if they weren't another Pureblood."

"Helpful," Hermione sighed. "Although I guess it makes sense."

"Bugger that for a lark," Dudley said quietly, then looked startled when everybody looked at him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say that out loud."

"Nobody's disagreeing with you, mate," Dean said.

Dudley smiled, then brushed some croissant crumbs from his knees into his hand, before depositing them on his plate. "I don't think there's much use me being here any longer," he said. "Looks like the investigation is purely wizarding, so I'll make sure to -"

"Actually, I think there is something you could do," Draco said, glancing around when everyone looked at him in consternation. "What?"

"A little out of character, maybe?" Harry said, "Wanting a Muggle's help?"

"Unsurprisingly, Potter, I seemed to have grasped the intricacies of the situation more quickly than you." Draco smirked, before his smile dropped. "You can't stay here," he said to Pansy. "Even with the wards, we have no idea how strong the Invocation is once whoever's cast it decides to focus their will on you. Which they're going to, because eventually they'll notice that you've disappeared, and it won't take them long to figure out where you're hiding."

"Purebloods go to ground with other Purebloods," Ron said, nodding thoughtfully.

"Precisely," Draco said. "So I suggest Inspector Muggle here makes himself useful by hiding you somewhere unexpected."

"You're joking?" Dudley asked disbelievingly, before he turned to Harry. "He is joking, right?"

"Actually," Harry said slowly, "I think it makes quite a lot of sense."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be much shorter but because of the aforementioned family trip I had no editing time yesterday, and then decided that actually these two segments work quite nicely together. There will be two double-chapter days this week (hurrah!) probably on Wednesday and Friday, but tbc...
> 
> Anyway, hope this makes things a little clearer. Also I hope you like Callie?


	9. Dummy

_Tulse Hill, South London_   
_  
14th December 2009, 3.27pm_

 

“I like it,” Pansy said, dumping the bag of clothes that she had filched from Daphne onto the polished wooden floorboards of Dudley’s narrow hallway. “Very quaint.”

 _Quaint?_ Dudley mouthed, clearly unused to hearing his four-bed Victorian terraced house described this way. Harry shrugged, trying as hard as he could not to show just how much he was enjoying himself.

He and Dudley might be on far better terms now than they had been as children, but there was still a unique pleasure in imagining the torture that his cousin was likely to be subjected to over the next few days.

“Curious how they don’t move,” Pansy said, narrowing her eyes and squinting at one of the small photographs of Dudley and Petunia that hung on the blue-painted wall. This particular one was from Dudley’s eleventh birthday, Harry realised. He’d almost forgotten how much his cousin had resembled a pig.

“Don’t look at that,” Dudley said, his voice somewhere between exasperation and horror. “That’s -”

“I’d say you’ve improved with age,” Pansy remarked, before stepping through the open doorway that led to the living room.

Dudley threw Harry a look of desperation. “How long did you say she’d need to stay here?”

“I dunno,” Harry said, following Pansy through into the living room. “How long do you reckon it’ll take for us to find a bank-robbing murderous nutjob?” He looked around, admiring the fresh paint on the walls. “Did you redecorate?”

“I had a week’s leave last month,” Dudley sighed, coming in to join them. “I haven’t had a chance to do much to the place since I moved in so I thought -”

“Is this not where you grew up?” Pansy asked, turning to look at them both.

Dudley’s hand rose to rub the back of his neck self-consciously. “No, I sold that place after Mum died.” His eyes flicked to Harry. “Too many memories.”

“Hmm,” Pansy nodded. “Well, I guess I can stay here for the time being.”

“You _will_ stay here for the time being,” Harry corrected her. “There’s no ‘I guess’ about it.”

“Authoritative,” Pansy smiled. “I’m almost glad I didn’t hand you over to the Dark Lord.”

“Gosh, Parkinson,” Harry pursed his lips. “What a heartwarming sentiment.”

“When would she have handed you over to - who’s the Dark Lord?” Dudley asked, looking worriedly between the pair of them.

“I’ll let you answer that one,” Harry glared at Pansy. “I guess the two of you will need something to talk about over the next few days.” He glanced at Dudley, who was looking increasingly despairing. “I’m going to check with Ron and Dean that they’re not having too much trouble with the wards, and then I need to get home to Grimmauld.”

“Right,” Dudley nodded. “Actually, could you come with me a sec? There was something I wanted to give you.”

“What about me?” Pansy asked. She had already kicked off her shoes and curled up on Dudley’s linen-coloured sofa, looking very much like an overgrown, extremely dangerous cat.

Dudley paused in the doorway for a moment, his eyes sliding briefly to Harry’s before they returned to his unwelcome houseguest. “Why don’t you stay here, make no noise, and pretend you don’t exist?"

Caught unawares, Harry gave a splutter of surprised laughter, and a smile touched the edges of Dudley’s mouth before he jerked his head towards the hallway. “With me, Potter.”

Harry had a last glimpse of Pansy sat on the sofa looking thoughtful, before he followed Dudley up the stairs.

“I meant to ask you,” he said, as they rounded the turn, and he caught a glimpse of a garden that looked much more under control than his own, “did you find out what happened to that PC?”

“No,” Dudley shook his head. “She seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. Still want me to get a photo sent over?” he asked, opening the door to what turned out to be his study.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Harry nodded, then paused, looking around. “It’s nice in here.”

The room was furnished with an industrial-looking desk and some bookshelves stacked with fileboxes and reference books, as well as a few potted plants. There was another photo of Petunia on display on the desk, and on one of the shelves, in a neat silver frame, was one of Harry and Dudley that appeared to have been taken at a crime scene a couple of years before. Harry felt his eyebrows rise as he picked this one up, noting the way he and Dudley had bent their heads together conspiratorially. If the photo had been moving, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see them smile.

“Oh,” Dudley said, nodding. “Sahra took that. Said we looked thick as thieves.”

“She’s not wrong.” Harry replaced the photo, and looked around again. There were no pictures of Vernon, and he knew better than to say anything.

“Yeah, I liked it.” Dudley’s eyes made a quick survey of the room before he returned his attention to his desk, and the drawer he was now rummaging inside. “I spend most of my time here when I’m home so I wanted it to be -”

“Peaceful,” Harry mused, then started when he realised he’d interrupted. “Sorry.”

“Nah, you’re alright,” Dudley said, straightening up with something in his hands. His expression had turned shifty, and Harry was suddenly worried about what might be in the small package that Dudley now held out to him.

“Little early for Christmas presents, isn’t it?” he asked lightly, and Dudley shifted awkwardly.

“It’s not a Christmas present,” he said. Harry watched as he clenched and unclenched the fingers of his free hand, wondering what on earth Dudley had given him.

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“Just open it,” Dudley sighed. “It would be easier to explain if you just -”

“Oh,” Harry said, having drawn out the stack of photographs. In the one on top, two small girls grinned madly, frozen in time with their arms around one another. Even though the photo was old and faded, it was clear that the smaller of the two had dark red hair and startlingly green eyes.

Harry flicked to the next photograph, where the same two girls now sat at a table, each with a mixing bowl and wooden spoon. He looked first at the blonde girl, clearly slightly older, who was wearing a mischievous smile as she licked cake mix from her spoon, and then his eyes were drawn inexorably to the other girl, who had been caught mid-giggle. If you looked closely, it was possible to discern that her spoon was floating in the air, her hand open just below the handle.

“Dudley, I -” he looked up, only realising when his cousin seemed to swim in front of him that his eyes had filled with tears. “Where did you -”

“When I had my leave,” Dudley said, voice gruff. “I cleared out some of Mum’s old stuff that I hadn’t - I couldn’t before. They were just in a box and I thought you - I know you don’t -”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. The next photo showed Petunia shrieking with laughter as Lily threw snowballs at her. They couldn’t have been more than seven and nine years old.

The only time he’d ever seen Lily as a child had been when he’d looked at Snape’s memories in the Pensieve. He’d never had a photo of her this young, and in many ways it had almost seemed as though her life hadn’t begun until she’d gone to Hogwarts. He felt a hot tightness in his throat, and pushed his glasses up to swipe at his eyes.

“Thanks, Dudley,” he said, and then on an impulse he reached forward and wrapped his cousin in a quick, tight hug.

“Don’t mention it,” Dudley muttered, patting Harry’s shoulder awkwardly. “It’s really not -”

“It really is,” Harry said, stepping back.

They both spent a moment shuffling uncomfortably, and then Harry had a thought. “Hey. What are you doing for Christmas?”

 

* * *

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_

_14th December 2009, 4.14pm_

 

Harry apparated back to Grimmauld still half-dazed by the packet of photos he had tucked into the inside pocket of his coat.

He was desperate to talk to Hermione: not only because she knew how it was to live without parents, but also because really, whenever anything happened to him, Harry was always desperate to talk to Hermione.

Rushing through the front door, he pulled the packet from his pocket and tossed his coat in the direction of the hatstand, barely noticing Kreacher as he apparated into the hall and only catching the tail end of the elf’s croaked words.

“- are in the upstairs drawing room taking tea. Is Master wanting -”

“Sorry Kreacher,” Harry said, skidding to a halt and peering over the bannisters. “Who’s in the upstairs drawing room?”

“The Mudblood One and Master Nott.” Kreacher blinked owlishly. “Will Master be wanting another pot of tea bringing up?”

“Another…” Harry repeated, feeling his bright mood deflating rapidly. “How long have they been up there?”

“All afternoon, Master,” Kreacher said. At the look on Harry’s face he started to wring his hands. “Master did say that Kreacher was to treat the Mudblood One as though she was -”

“I know what I said,” Harry snapped, then sighed deeply. “Sorry Kreacher, it’s not you I’m angry with. Send up that tea, would you?”

He climbed the stairs slowly towards the second floor, and soon he heard muffled voices, then Hermione’s laughter. For some reason the sound made Harry scowl, but he did his best to wipe the expression from his face before opening the door.

The first thing he saw was Theo sitting in his favourite wingback armchair, one leg crossed over the other so that his trousers pulled up to reveal his ankle in all its emerald-socked glory. He was laughing at something that Hermione had clearly just said, and when he caught sight of Harry he turned his smile towards him.

“Granger here was just telling me about her unfortunate first attempt at a Polyjuice Potion,” he said, and Hermione looked towards Harry from where she was perched on the sofa, grinning brightly.

“Do you remember?” she said. “I had whiskers for a whole -”

“Of course I remember,” Harry nodded, cutting her off. “You two having a nice afternoon?”

Hermione bridled slightly at Harry’s abrupt tone, and Theo’s eyes narrowed into a look of close scrutiny. “I brought over a few of my grandfather’s diaries for Granger to look through. You might have heard of him,” he said lightly, leaning forward to pick up his cup. “Cantankerus Nott?”

Harry noticed distantly that the Thestrals on Theo’s teacup were flapping their wings delightedly, and felt even more sour. “Didn’t he compile the _Pure-Blood Directory_?”

“My my, Potter,” Theo smiled. “You really aren’t as stupid as you look, are you? I thought there might be something in there that would prove useful.”

“Kind of you,” Harry said, in a tone that he knew implied anything but gratitude. From her position on the sofa Hermione frowned at him, but Harry ignored the look. “Don’t mind me,” he bit out. “If I’m interrupting something I’m quite happy to -”

“Not at all,” Theo said smoothly, replacing his cup and standing in one fluid, practiced movement. “Actually I should probably be going.”

“Wait,” Hermione said, half-rising. “Harry didn’t mean -”

“Oh, I know exactly what he meant,” Theo said. “But I really do need to be off.” He looked at Harry. “Would you mind seeing me out?”

“Me?” Harry asked, baffled. “You mean Hermione.”

“No, Potter,” Theo gave him a smile that managed to be at once charming and incredibly sinister. “I was hoping to have a word with _you_.” He nodded to Hermione. “It’s been a pleasure, Granger. Do let me know if you have more anecdotes to share.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said absently. She looked just as confused as Harry felt. “See you, I guess?”

Theo gave her what Harry had to assume was an ironic salute, before gesturing to the door behind Harry. “Shall we?”

“Right,” Harry said, standing to the side to let him past. He threw a look towards Hermione, who shrugged, then flapped a hand to encourage him to follow Theo. The other wizard was taking the stairs two at a time, and Harry had to almost run to keep up with him. “I thought you said you wanted -”

“Yes I did, didn’t I?” Theo said, turning on his heel as he reached the hallway. He snapped his fingers, and to Harry’s intense annoyance Kreacher appeared, carrying Theo’s travelling cloak.

“Is there anything else Kreacher can -”

“No,” Harry said flatly, and Kreacher gave him a dirty look before disapparating once more.

“Touchy today, aren’t you?” Theo remarked, and Harry glared at him.

“Did you want to make observations about my mood,” he growled, “or did you actually have something you needed to talk to me about?”

Theo gave him a long, level look. “You’re terribly handsome when you’re angry, Potter,” he said, as he looped his cloak around his shoulders. “Positively distracting.”

“I’m -” Harry blinked. “What?”

Theo’s lips pressed together as he considered him. “You know that thing I said about you not being as stupid as you look?”

“What about it?” Harry snapped.

“I was wrong,” Theo sighed, as he opened the door and stepped out to the street. “You’re even stupider.”

 


	10. Game-tree Complexity

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_

_15th December 2009, 7.56am_

 

“What happened to you?” Ron asked as soon as Harry wrenched open the door the next morning.

“Get inside, it’s freezing,” Harry said grouchily, ignoring the question to turn away and head back towards the hub of warmth provided that was the kitchen.

“Oh hi, yeah I’m fine thanks,” he heard Ron yelling, before the sound of the door slamming shut echoed down the hall, followed by two muffled thumps as Ron threw his boots onto the shoe rack.

“Seriously, Harry,” Ron said, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. “What’s with the -” He gestured vaguely at his own nose.

“I got dragged into a minor disagreement at the Bat and Broomstick last night,” Harry said, moving his jaw gingerly as he lifted the lid of the saucepan that sat, bubbling quietly, on the hob. The unmistakable fennel-and-rosemary scent of pain potion filled the room, and he turned to look at Ron. “Coffee?”

“What do you mean a ‘minor disagreement’?” Ron said. “And why the hell were you at the Bat and Broomstick? Isn’t that Marcus Flint’s pub?”

“I go there when I want to have a drink in peace,” Harry sighed, turning off the heat under the pan with a tap of his wand. Snape would have been horrified to see him brewing potions like this, but he didn’t really give a toss.

“Doesn’t look very peaceful,” Ron snorted. “Is your nose actually broken or -”

“Not any more,” Harry said. “Marcus fixed it after they got rid of the cyclops.” 

“There was a cy-” Ron held up his hands. “You know what, I don’t want to know.”

Harry shrugged and went to pass Ron a coffee. “Why, though?” Ron burst out, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Why did you get into a fight with a cyclops?”

“Great question,” Harry nodded. “Really good. Excellent.”

“And the answer?” Ron prompted him.

“Well…” Harry trailed away. He’d been trying his best not to think about it, and to be entirely fair, getting half-cut in a rough pub and then fighting with a cyclops had been fairly effective. “I was - I was in a bit of a bad mood."

"You don't say," Ron deadpanned. " _Why_ were you in a bad mood?" 

"I -" Harry frowned, then crossed his arms. "I sort of had a fight with Hermione.”

“What?” Ron wrinkled his nose, brow furrowing in confusion. “Over what?”

“I don’t - it’s - over Theo Nott.”

“What?” Ron now looked completely nonplussed. “Why would you two be fighting about Theo Nott?”

“I don’t know!” Harry yelped, gesturing to one side and nearly slopping coffee everywhere. “Why don’t you ask her? The two of them are always _giggling_ together and it’s - I got back here yesterday and she was telling him about the Polyjuice Potion in second year! He was sitting in _my_ chair and drinking out of _my_ cups and _what are you laughing at me for_?”

Ron sobered abruptly, though he couldn’t quite suppress a smirk. “It sounds like you’re jealous, mate.”

“ _Jealous_?” Harry demanded. “Of what? Some smarmy posh twat lawyer? It’s not me being jealous to recognise that Hermione’s patently too good for him.”

“I’m just saying,” Ron sipped his coffee mildly, watching as Harry decanted the pain potion into a mug, “that’s how it sounds.”

“I’m not fucking jealous,” Harry muttered, taking a swig of potion and grimacing. “Ugh. Merlin’s beard, this stuff is disgusting.”

“So how did it start, this fight with Hermione?” Ron asked, pulling out one of the mismatched kitchen chairs and apparently settling in.

“Well, after I kicked him out she -”

“Ah,” Ron nodded. “They’re friends, right? You _can_ sort of see how that might have rubbed her up the wrong way.”

“ _He_ was the one who said I'm even stupider than I look.” Harry scowled down at the dregs of pain potion and then downed the contents of the mug, shuddering as the acrid taste burned down his throat.

“My mum flavours pain potion with chamomile,” Ron offered helpfully.

“I know,” Harry said. “So does Hermione, except -”

“So she’s the one usually brewing you pain potions, is she?” Ron raised his eyebrows. “And how often do you need those?”

“Not this again,” Harry huffed. “I’d rather talk about Theo than have another argument with you about -”

“Fine,” Ron shrugged amiably. “Why did he say you were stupider than you look?”

“Well,” Harry frowned. “First he said that I was handsome when I’m angry.”

“Did he now?”

Harry could see a muscle working in Ron’s cheek, and knew that he was struggling not to start laughing again. “ _What_?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be a detective. Maybe he was trying to give you a clue about something?”

“How is him saying I’m handsome supposed to be a clue?” Harry groused, then frowned as something occurred to him. “Wait a minute, is Nott -” 

“Yup,” Ron nodded. “Very much so, from what I hear.”

“Shit,” Harry said, staring at his bruised knuckles. “Well, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a twat.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Ron said mildly.

Harry stared at the wall for a moment, trying to work out why this revelation about Theo had left him feeling both better and much, much worse, before something occurred to him. “Why are you here, again?”

Ron smiled grimly and pulled a small packet from his pocket, quickly expanding it with a tap of his wand. “Coroner’s report on the goblins,” he said. “I figured since you’re already knee-deep in this one, you might have some insights. Straightforward _Avada_ , as we thought, with evidence of extremely precise torture prior to death.” He passed the report to Harry, who scanned it quickly, before looking at Ron over the top of the parchment. 

"This says -"

“Same magical signature as Haringey,” he nodded. “Justin doesn’t think they’re using their own wand, otherwise he’d be able to be more precise. Probably a family wand they’ve inherited, he reckons.”

“Which would fit with the pureblood angle,” Harry mused. “I wish Ollivander was still around, he’d know. Any clue as to what they were after?”

“Trail goes cold at the Fawley vault,” Ron said.

“Fawley?” Harry repeated. “As in Emilius’s mum?”

“Exactly,” Ron said. “So we were wondering, is there any chance he might have hidden something there before he died?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shook his head, which made the throbbing in his nose worse. “But he asked me to meet him at the warehouse the night he -” Harry swallowed hard “- the night he died. Said he had something he needed to tell me.”

“Selwyn was already dead by then, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “We found his body that morning, when Emilius was already missing.”

Ron stared into the middle distance. “So what if whoever’s behind this gets Ogden with the Invocation, has him kill Selwyn in order to get something, and then gets distracted long enough for Ogden to stash whatever it is -”

“Gringotts is the safest place in the world for anything you want to keep safe,” Harry murmured, remembering Hagrid saying it to him all those years before.

“Yeah,” Ron said darkly. “Look where that got them.”

“Why wait?” Harry asked quietly. “It’s been two years - why go in all guns blazing now?”

“Guns?” Ron barked. “There weren’t any -”

“Muggle expression,” Harry said with a wave of his hand. “I meant: why wait so long to make all this noise?”

“No idea,” Ron sighed. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what I think.” Harry looked away. “I know some of the pieces are there, but there aren’t enough of them for me to see how they go together yet.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron pushed his chair back. “I need to be at the office. What are you doing today?”

Harry’s eyes went to the clock on the wall, whose single hand, showing his own portrait, had remained firmly stuck on _In Disgrace_ since the previous afternoon. “I think I need to go and apologise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a two chapter day in the end. Sorry! Let's hold out hope for tomorrow...


	11. Preference Profile

_Canonbury, North London_

_15th December 2009, 9.13am_

 

Given that she only lived about a mile away, Harry decided to walk over to Hermione's flat. It would, he reasoned, do him good to stretch his legs, plus he could pick up a bribe along the way.

Hermione opened the door after his second knock, her hair voluminous enough to suggest a rushed drying charm. Her eyes narrowed as soon as she saw who it was.

“I come in peace,” Harry said, holding up the Euphorium Bakery bag.

“Try again,” Hermione replied, stony-faced. She hadn’t moved from her position blocking the doorway.

Harry winced. “I’m sorry?”

“Was that supposed to sound like a question?”

Wishing that she could have picked a better time to remind him of how infuriating she could be, Harry gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry for acting like a prize dickhead.”

When he looked at her again Hermione had folded her lips together, presumably to stop herself from smiling. She was still eyeing the bakery bag with interest. “And?”

“What -” Harry bit his tongue. “ _And_ ," he ground out, _"_ I’m sorry for being rude to your friends?”

“Theo would be your friend too if you let him,” Hermione said pointedly, before uncrossing her arms and relaxing her stance slightly. “What’s in the bag?”

“Cheese and ham toastie on that fancy bread you like,” he said. When Hermione reached for the bag he swung it out of her reach. “No way. Let me in first.”

“That’s extortion,” Hermione said, stepping to one side and waving him indoors. “I’m letting you inside because it’s too cold to have the door open, but just so you’re aware, I’m only _considering_ forgiving you.”

“Good to know,” Harry sighed, releasing the bag when Hermione grabbed for it again. “What might make you go beyond ‘considering’?”

“Mmf.” Hermione had taken a bite of the challah roll, and now turned her eyes skywards. “God, these things are good. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook!” she went on, seeing Harry’s hopeful look. “It’s the Ministry’s Yule Drinks tonight and -”

“No,” Harry said, feeling his stomach drop with horror at the prospect. “You can’t make me.”

“Well, not looking like that I can’t,” she said, before popping the last bite of sandwich into her mouth and sucking crumbs from her fingers. Harry’s neck felt hot all of a sudden, and he belatedly realised he was still wearing his coat and scarf, and hurriedly started shrugging them off.

Hermione tipped her head to one side, then reached for his nose. “What happened here?”

“Fight at the Bat and Broomstick,” Harry said, reluctantly allowing Hermione to examine the small bump left by Marcus's perfunctory _Episkey_ charm. “I was only there for a drink, it wasn’t -”

“Yes, because the Bat and Broomstick is exactly where people go when they’re _avoiding_ trouble,” Hermione said, stepping back and giving him a knowing look.

“Well, yeah, fine,” Harry shrugged. “But this was more of a wrong place, wrong time sort of thing. I was helping -”

“Of course you were,” Hermione said quietly. “Remember that conversation we had about unhealthy coping mechanisms?”

“You’re one to talk,” Harry snorted, before he remembered that it made his nose hurt. “I don’t remember coping with my breakup with Gin by deciding to get an unnecessary Muggle degree while still working full time.”

“No,” Hermione flashed him a smile as sweet as it was entirely false. “You decided to throw yourself into increasingly dangerous criminal cases instead.”

“Ouch,” Harry muttered. “Alright, maybe I deserved that.”

“No,” Hermione said, turning around and heading in the direction of her living room. “ _Definitely_ you deserved that. And you’re coming this evening, whether you like it or not.”

“Why?” Harry demanded, following after her and plonking himself down on the settee. “I’m a disgrace, remember? It’s going to be all Robards and his cronies, and people like Malfoy and Nott smarming about -”

“Which gives you the perfect opportunity to apologise to Theo for your behaviour yesterday,” Hermione said primly, folding her legs under her where she sat in her enormous red velvet armchair (that Harry privately suspected she had liberated from Gryffindor tower).

He briefly considered slamming his head against the wall, but decided against it. The feeling of arguing with Hermione was similar enough. “Has it occurred to you that I might really, _really_ not want to do that?”

“And has it occurred to you that you might consider acting like a grown-up once in a while?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m a grown-up,” Harry replied snarkily.

“Well, I admit I might be taking some liberties with the term,” Hermione picked at a spot on the chair’s arm. “I actually thought you might enjoy the chance to piss off Robards,” she said innocently.

“There is that, I guess,” Harry conceded. “But still -”

“Plus it’ll be crawling with purebloods,” Hermione went on. “So if you think about it, it’s actually necessary to the investigation that you go along.”

She wasn’t visiblysmirking, but Harry could hear the self-satisfaction in her voice. “You crafty -”

“Careful,” she said, looking up at him. “I could still rescind your invitation.”

“I hate you,” Harry sighed.

“Nah, you don’t.” Hermione smiled at him, her eyes warm.

Harry found himself smiling goofily back at her for no reason, and quickly cleared his throat. “Anyway, I wanted to show you what Dudley gave me yesterday.”

He withdrew the packet of photos from his pocket, and Hermione sat forward in her chair. “Are these to do with the case?”

“Nope,” Harry said, passing them to her when she reached out one hand.

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up when she saw the first photograph, and she quickly thumbed through the rest. When she looked up at him, her eyes were shining. “Oh, _Harry_. Where did these come from?”

“Apparently he found them when he went through Petunia’s stuff a few weeks ago,” he said. His voice sounded oddly gruff, and he cleared his throat. “It was - I didn’t really know what to say, so I invited him for Christmas -”

“You did?” Hermione said. “That’s brilliant! Kreacher must be thrilled.”

“Ah,” Harry pulled at his collar. “Yeah, I haven’t actually told him yet.”

“Why not?” Hermione frowned.

“Well, he’s - I mean, it's possible that he's in a strop with me too.” Harry grimaced. “Some nonsense about not honouring the memory of his mistress by behaving in a vulgar manner towards the something or other heir to the something something House of Nott.”

“Pithy,” Hermione remarked.

“I tuned a lot of it out,” Harry admitted. “But I had to have a takeaway for dinner, and I’m pretty sure I overboiled the pain potion this morning and he didn’t come and scold me, so I must have really put his back up.”

“How nobly you suffer,” Hermione said drily. “He’s probably off in the ninety-second basement unearthing more horrible china. Don’t -” she said, pointing a finger at Harry when he opened his mouth “- don’t you _dare_ tell him I said that."

“Ah,” said Harry, “but what’s the price of my silence?”

“I promise not to leave you alone with anyone you might be too tempted to hex tonight?” Hermione offered mischievously.

“Why am I friends with you?” Harry asked.

“Because look at what happens when we fall out,” Hermione said. “You can’t even brew your own pain potions. Now get out of my house, I’ve got a hearing to prepare for.”

Harry sighed, and got up from the sofa. “That Veela who was using Match.com?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “The sphinx who kept winning the Times Crossword.”

“Good luck with that,” Harry said, grabbing his coat and scarf from the hooks. "Can you count riddles as testimony or -"

“Oh, don’t.” Hermione exhaled heavily. “I’ve already had to sit through the interview she gave Luna.”

“Bloody hell.” Harry wound his scarf back round his neck and dug in his pockets for his gloves. “Rather you than me.”

“You’re such a supportive friend,” Hermione said, tipping her head to one side and smiling sarcastically.

“Ah!” Harry punched the air. “You called me your friend. Score one for Potter!”

“Get out,” Hermione told him, as Harry, laughing, pulled open the front door. “And do something about that bruise before tonight!”

“Why?” Harry turned to call back, his breath puffing white on the cold air. “Doesn’t it make me look dashing?”

Hermione shook her head, but she was laughing. “It starts at seven. Don’t be late!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, a party at the Ministry...


	12. Trembling Hand

_Ministry of Magic_

_15th December 2009, 7.19pm_

 

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Harry said. He was pulling at the collar of his dress robes as though afraid they were going to choke him at any moment, his posture stiff and uncomfortable. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever had to -”

“That is a horrendous lie,” Hermione said, holding the door of the red telephone box open for him to step in behind her. “Stop being such a drama queen.”

She reached for his collar, ignoring his grin as she straightened out the starched cotton, and smoothed his tie against his chest. The booth was so small that they were standing very close together, and she could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, and the sharp breath he took as he looked down at her.

For once Hermione, so well-versed in Harry’s expressions that she would have said she could read him like a book, found herself unable to tell what he was thinking.

“Herm-”

The phone chimed their arrival in the atrium, and Hermione snatched her hand from Harry’s chest.

“Best foot forward,” she said, her own voice sounding oddly strained to her ears, and darted out of the box as fast as her feet could carry her.

One of the Ministry interns took her cloak, and Hermione shivered for a moment as the artificially cooled air hit her bare shoulders, before she made a beeline for one of the trays, charmed to float between the guests.

By the time Harry caught her up Hermione had already taken two glasses. She passed him one, conscious, in the moment he took to look her up and down, that her green velvet dress was new, and very expensive, and bought because Theo said it made her look “fucking sensational.” Harry opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, and seemed just on the verge of opening it again when Ernie Macmillan strode up to them and stuck his hand out with aggressive cordiality.

“Good to see you, Harry.”

Hermione saw Harry bite his cheek before he drew a gracious smile onto his face and clasped Ernie’s outstretched hand.

“And you, Ern. How’s Improper Use of Magic these days?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” Ernie nodded absently. His eyes roved around the room, making sure people had seen him shaking Harry’s hand. “And yourself? Managing to keep busy?”

“Oh, you know. Irons in the fire and all that,” Harry said, taking a sip of his champagne and then pausing to squint at the glass. “Blimey, that’s nice.”

“Saint-Saëns,” Ernie nodded sagely. “One of Gawain’s favourites.”

Hermione took a sip of her own champagne to stop herself from laughing as Harry’s face darkened at the mention of Robards, and savoured the crisp taste as the elf-made champagne made one of the Violin Sonatas begin to play quietly in her head. 

“Has you calling him Gawain now, does he?” Harry asked.

“Hah! Yes,” Ernie chuckled, completely missing the acid in Harry’s tone. “Likes to encourage an informal atmosphere with his department heads. It’s really very -”

“I’m sure,” Harry said, coldly enough that even Ernie paused, eyeing him uncertainly.

“Yes, well,” Ernie blustered on after a moment, clearly casting about for something to say, before his eyes fell on Hermione. “Ah! Granger! You’re looking lovely this evening. Still taking on those pro-bono cases?”

“Fight the power,” Hermione said lightly, tilting her glass, and Ernie had half-moved to meet the toast before he paused, frowning.

“I’m not sure that’s -“

“Oh look,” Hermione said, stepping deliberately on Harry’s foot in an effort to stop him from sniggering. “Neville’s over there, we should go and say hello.”

“Of course, of course,” Ernie nodded, clearly relieved as he waved them away.

“You’re terrible.” Harry leaned down to murmur in her ear, catching her elbow as they moved between the other attendees towards where Neville stood against the wall on the other side of the room.

“No worse than you,” Hermione replied, wondering whether it was the champagne or Harry’s fingers on her arm making her feel light-headed.

This had been happening for a few months now: the odd skips of her heart when Harry looked at her a certain way, or touched her unthinkingly, as he was in the habit of doing, because they’d been friends for such a long time. Usually Hermione was alright - could count on the distraction of work, or of other people - but then there would be times like this evening when it seemed like her brain had short-circuited and all she could think was _Harry - Harry - Harry - my dear friend, my darling -_

“Alright Nev?” Harry said, his voice breaking into Hermione’s treacherous thoughts.

“Oh, hi guys.” Neville had been staring off into the distance, and now he blinked a little, as though surprised to have been approached, before smiling broadly. “Having fun?”

“Time of my life,” Harry rolled his eyes. “But all the better for seeing you. It’s been too long, mate.”

“Yeah,” Neville nodded eagerly. “Sorry about that, things have been -“

“Harry!”

Gawain Robards’s booming voice crashed into their corner, cutting off whatever Neville had been about to say. Hermione watched as his features seemed to pinch together for a moment, and felt a wave of sympathy as Robards descended on them.

“Minister,” Harry nodded curtly. “Nice party.”

“Isn’t it?” Robards was practically yelling, and Hermione winced, laying her hand on Neville’s sleeve as he shrank back towards the wall. “Thought we’d put on a good show, thank everyone for their hard work.”

Admittedly the atrium looked incredible. Real snow fell from the ceiling, melting away a few inches above the heads of the party-goers. Everywhere Hermione looked she could see the glitter of frost; sparkling filaments of tinsel spiderwebbed the walls, and bunches of holly and mistletoe were dotted about, red and white berries bright enough that they seemed internally lit.

“Thoughtful of you,” Harry sniffed. “I like this champagne too, good vintage is it?”

“Ah yes,” Robards smiled indulgently. “Year 2000, very fine indeed.”

“Well I’m glad those legal aid cuts went towards something useful,” Hermione said before she could stop herself.

Robards’ expression turned frosty as he slid his gaze reluctantly away from Harry. “Miss Granger,” he said, with marked distaste. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Thank you for the invite,” Hermione smiled guilelessly back at him, watching Robards’s florid complexion darken a shade or two. Next to her Harry seemed to be having a coughing fit.

“Well,” Robards said eventually. “Naturally. You are a valued employee of the Department for Wizarding Jurisprudence.”

“I think I was the founding member,” Hermione frowned. “But I might have got that wrong. As you’ve previously pointed out to me Minister, I am very sil-“

“Oh wow!” Harry yelped, looping an arm around her waist and tugging her forcefully backwards. “Hermione I think - isn’t that your favourite - we should go - bye, Neville, see you later, Gawain!”

“Let me go!” Hermione hissed, as Harry guided her towards the dancefloor that had been set up around the central fountain.

“Not on your life,” he muttered back. “I thought _I_ was the one who couldn’t be trusted around authority figures, I didn’t realise I was here to chaperone _you_.”

“I can’t help it,” Hermione groaned. “He’s just _so_ vile, and no one holds him to account for it, it’s dis-“

“Disgusting, yes,” Harry nodded, as they stepped through the charmed sound-barrier at the edge of the dancefloor, and the noise of a full band suddenly replaced the chatter of voices. He plucked the champagne flute from her hand and placed it on a passing tray. “However, he has the backing of the Wizengamot,” he said, as he laid his right hand on her lower back and turned to face her.

“Well they’re even more corrupt than the Muggle government.” Hermione scowled as Harry caught hold of her right hand with his left. “What are you doing?”

“Playing gobstones,” Harry said, as he started to steer her through the other dancers. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“You don’t dance,” Hermione said, feeling stupid when Harry looked at her like she’d gone mad.

“Since when?” He tipped his head quizzically to one side. “We’ve always danced together.”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded, “but -“

“But nothing,” Harry smirked. “Stop being weird.”

“I am not being - Harry!” She grabbed for his arm as he spun her back towards him, grinning.

“What were you saying?”

“You’re insufferable,” Hermione sighed, squeezing his shoulder gently to undermine the words.

“I know,” Harry nodded. He was quiet for a moment, and Hermione looked up at him to see his jaw working. Against her spine she felt his fingers tense. “Herm-“

“Pardon the interruption,” Theo cut in from behind and prised Hermione from Harry’s grip. “But you appear to be hogging the prettiest girl in the room, Potter.”

Hermione caught a brief glimpse of Harry’s mouth flattening into a furious line before Theo whirled her away.

“What the hell did you do that for?” she demanded, punching Theo in the shoulder with the hand he wasn’t holding.

“Trust me Granger,” he smirked. “I’m doing you a favour.”

“He was just about to -“

“He was just about to what?” Theo asked, raising one sardonic eyebrow.

Hermione winced. “I don’t know, alright? But it seemed significant.”

“I’m sure it was,” Theo said. “But it’s good for him to have to compete for your attention.”

Hermione relented. She hadn’t told Theo about her recent confusion, but she wouldn’t have been surprised to find out he had guessed. It was a shame Harry seemed to dislike him so much, she reflected, because Theo was probably her second-best friend these days, and it was a real headache having to navigate between the two of them.

“Stop thinking so much,” Theo admonished her. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

“Shut up,” she told him, though she could hear her own laugh in her voice.

The tempo of the music ebbed, and Theo made a complicated step-change, somehow managing to protect his toes from Hermione’s as he did so, before he leaned close, his mouth against her ear. “Do you think Potter’s head would explode if I kissed you?”

“Theodore!” Hermione could feel her cheeks turning scarlet. “I can’t believe you would -”

“Come on,” he murmured, “you already know you like it.”

They had kissed only the once: nearly a year ago, in Theo’s office above the new independent bookshop on Knockturn Alley. Hermione had been helping him to go over bundles ahead of a deposition the following afternoon, and as the late night threatened to become early morning Theo had produced a bottle of very good wine that he had apparently summoned from his cellars at home.

It had been when they were partway through the second bottle that Hermione turned to him, squinted a little, and said, “You know, you’re really awfully pretty.”

Theo had responded by kissing her: a perfect kiss, deliberate and sure and neatly executed. Hermione had kissed him back, enjoying the taste of the wine on his tongue, and the crisp, vetiver scent of him, before she had realised that the usual heat that would have accompanied such a moment was lacking.

“Merlin,” Theo had said, drawing back and looking at her. “I really wish I wanted to fuck you.”

Hermione had choked with surprise, then started to giggle uncontrollably. “Oh my god, you’re the actual _worst._ ”

“Stop it,” she said now, automatically releasing her grip on Theo’s shoulder as he lifted their clasped hands and twirled her underneath his arm.

As she pivoted on the ball of her foot, Hermione spotted Harry standing at the edge of the dancefloor. She twisted her neck as Theo brought her back into hold, to see Harry watching the pair of them with narrowed eyes, even as he inclined his head to listen to something that Ron was saying beside him.

“See?” Theo said, shifting his weight and whirling her away in the other direction. “Potter can’t keep his eyes off you. I _told_ you this was the dress.”

“He doesn’t -” Hermione started to protest.

“Enough,” Theo said firmly. “He was ready to murder me yesterday afternoon just for having tea with you, and you’re going to tell me he’s not jealous? Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he sighed, when Hermione stared at him in shock at his bluntness. “For two people who are supposed to be running a detective agency, you’re shockingly bad at reading the evidence in front of you.”

“I don’t -” Hermione started to say, then relented, sagging slightly in Theo’s arms. “Fine.” She peeked hopefully up at him. “You really think he’s jealous?”

“Oh _darling_ ,” Theo laughed. “How could he not be?”

Hermione smiled, dipping her chin to hide her blush. “Be quiet,” she mumbled.

When she glanced up, it was to find Harry still watching her, and Hermione felt a fluttering sensation in her chest.

“Steer us back towards him,” she told Theo. “I want to -”

Hermione broke off, frowning, as she caught sight of Marcus Flint shouldering his way through the crowd behind Harry.

Aside from the fact that the Ministry weren’t really in the habit of inviting pub landlords to their parties, there was something about Marcus’s taut, goggle-eyed expression, even in the low candlelight, that wasn’t right.

“Theo,” she said sharply, clenching her fingers where they rested on his shoulder. Theo turned to follow her gaze, and Hermione saw his eyes widen slightly as he spotted Marcus too. “Doesn’t he look -”

“Potter!” Theo yelled, releasing his hold on Hermione and shoving her backwards. “Behind you!”

Hermione staggered, barely keeping her balance as she grasped Theo’s sleeve. She looked up in time to see Harry and Ron whirl, their wands raised, before there was a roar of sound and everything went dark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops


	13. Determinacy

_Ministry of Magic_

_15th December, 8.34pm_

 

Harry came to with his face pressed into the mess of broken glass and spilled champagne that covered the floor of the Ministry atrium. Something cold and damp was falling onto the back of his neck, and he realised the charm that kept the snow from falling must have failed. Above the ringing in his ears he could hear, faintly, the sound of screams.

He realised, belatedly, that the wet on the floor was not just champagne. He could see a shoe lying on the floor a little to his left, but no sign of whoever it had belonged to, which was strange because it hadn’t been the sort of party where people just kicked off their -

What sort of party had it been? His thoughts were coming too slow, Harry realised. He’d been standing at the edge of the dancefloor, watching as Theo and -

“Herm-” Harry tried to form her name, but his throat was thick with dust and his voice emerged as nothing more than a whisper. The last thing he could remember was watching her dancing with Theo. She’d looked astonishing - her olive skin gilded by the candlelight as she twirled in Theo’s arms, before her bright smile faded as she had looked at something over Harry’s shoulder -

Theo had shouted, Harry remembered. He’d shouted, and Harry had turned and seen Marcus, with that awful, fixed expression on his face; the look of raw terror in his eyes as he had raised his hand and -

Harry pushed himself upright, everything else eclipsed by the thought that he had to find Hermione; had to make sure that she was alright, that she hadn’t been hurt.

“Hermione!” he tried again, though his voice was rough and harsh to his own ears. He tried to suck in a deep breath, but started to choke on the taste of metal at the back of his throat before someone kicked him, hard, in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Harry yelped, collapsing back. “Jesus - fuck - what are you -“

“What is it with you, Harry?” asked an over-deep voice on which Harry recognised the effects of a Distortion Charm. “Why can’t you ever just stay down?”

Harry groaned as a dragon hide boot came to rest on the side of his jaw, applying enough pressure to squash his nose into a pool of warm, sticky liquid on the stone floor.

"Perhaps you can explain it for me,” the voice went on. The man was looming over him, his face lost in shadow. “Because I never did understand." He sounded calm and thoughtful, neither of which, Harry felt, boded well.

“Agh,” he ground out, feeling splinters of glass cutting into his cheek. “Understand _what_?”

"What’s so special about you?"

"What?" Harry managed to choke the word out. The man leaned closer to him, and through his shattered glasses Harry could make out the threefold image of his hooded silhouette in the flickering light of those candles that hadn’t been extinguished by the explosion.

“I wonder,” the man said quietly. “Do you have enough Peverell in you to make the Invocation st-“

“Harry!”

Above him the man jerked upright. Harry tried again to get up, but was stopped by a vicious pain that stabbed through his stomach as the man kicked him again.

“Hermione!” he tried to shout once more, but his voice emerged as a croak and Harry subsided, coughing, to the floor, where he rolled onto his back.

The man had disappeared, leaving Harry staring up into the dark recesses of the atrium ceiling before Hermione’s face appeared above him.

She was ashen pale, with a streak of something dark that might have been blood across one cheek, her hair tumbling haphazardly from its updo as she fell to her knees beside him.

“Oh my god,” she was whispering. “Oh shit, oh my god -”

“It’s - I’m fine,” Harry tried to tell her. “Where’s Ron, he was right beside -”

“Over here,” Ron’s voice sounded shaky, but he was getting to his feet, shaking his head so that fragments of glass fell to the floor in a glittering shower. “Hermione, have you seen Callie?”

“She was by the bar,” Hermione said. She had pulled Harry half onto her lap, and had her wand out to examine what turned out to be a rather nasty gash across his abdomen, but now she looked up to Ron and pointed towards the other side of the room. “I think she was a reasonable distance away from - from -”

“It was Marcus,” Harry whispered, as Ron went stumbling away in the direction Hermione had pointed. “It was Marcus, and he - he -”

“I know,” Hermione said. “I saw him before you, remember?”

Harry nodded, because he did remember, but it was all getting a bit fuzzy. “I think I hit my head,” he said, his voice sounding as though it was coming from rather a long way away, until a stinging pain brought him back to himself.

“Sorry,” Hermione was saying, and Harry realised that the sharp pain had been a very gentle Stinging Hex. “I’m so sorry, Harry, but you have to stay awake, I need to see how deep this is.”

“Could you do it without hexing me, maybe?” Harry asked breathlessly, and Hermione gave a surprised little huff of laughter as she peeled back his shirt. It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it, but the fact that he _had_ been imagining it was -

“This doesn’t look too deep,” Hermione murmured, and Harry nodded, trying to give her a reassuring smile. It quickly turned to a grimace when her fingers pressed against the tender spot on the side of his abdomen/

“Fuck - no - that’s where he kicked me.”

“Where who kicked you?” Hermione said, looking down at him in consternation.

“That guy - the - oh, Merlin’s fucking beard, he was _here_.”

“Who was?” Theo appeared in front of them, and Harry dragged his gaze from Hermione to look at him. Theo’s dress robes were torn and his hair was dishevelled in a way that he was somehow managing to pull off. For once, Harry didn’t find himself annoyed by Nott’s presence, recalling the way he had pushed Hermione behind him before he shouted.

“The Invocation guy,” Harry said, wincing when Hermione’s hand tightened on his - how long had she been holding his hand, and how had he not realised sooner?

“How do you know it was him?” she said, her voice so quiet Harry realised that his hearing must be recovering.  

“He spoke to me,” he said. “He asked - he asked what was so _special_ about me.” He frowned, trying to remember. “He called me Harry, like we know each other, but his voice was -”

“Did he get any of your blood?” Theo asked urgently.

“No,” Harry shuddered at the memory. “No, he was going to, he said something about Peverells, but then _you_ -“  He blinked up at Hermione in wonder. “You called my name,” he whispered, “and he ran.”

“Potter,” Theo said, then again, more sharply. “Harry!” Harry frowned, reluctantly breaking his gaze from Hermione’s.

“What?” he demanded, and Theo had the temerity to roll his eyes. Behind his shoulder, Harry watched as Malfoy hauled Robards to his feet. The Minister looked shaken, but unhurt.

“Did you see his face?” Theo asked, and Harry winced, shaking his head.

“He was wearing a cloak, and there wasn’t enough light,” he told him.

“Alright,” Theo said, rocking back on his heels. He exchanged a glance with Hermione over Harry’s head. “Do you want to wait for the Healers to arrive or…?”

“Harry?” Hermione asked. “Do you -”

“Is Callie OK?”

He felt Hermione shift as she looked behind her. “Yes - yes, Ron’s got her - she looks fine.”

“Neville?”

This time there was a longer pause, and then Hermione exhaled loudly. “Yeah, he’s right there by the lifts, he’s alright.”  
  
“What about Marcus?” Harry demanded. “Is he -”

“I’m sorry,” Theo shook his head. “He was right at the centre of the blast, he didn’t have a chance.”

“Fuck,” Harry swore, scrunching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. “Oh, fuck it.”

He went to sit up again, and this time, when he was expecting the pain, it was somehow more bearable.

“Easy there,” said Theo, catching his arm as Harry got shakily to his feet. “Take it slow, you don’t want to -”

“Take me home,” Harry said to Hermione. “Please just - just take me home before they start taking photographs.”

“OK,” she nodded, pulling his arm across her still-bare shoulders.

“They’ll want witness interviews,” Theo said, but Hermione waved her free hand dismissively.

“They know where to find us,” she told Theo, before starting to guide Harry back in the direction of the phone box.

He looked down at her as they walked, and realised that her velvet dress was streaked with muck. In amongst the larger sorrows Harry felt a deep pang at the thought of how beautiful she had looked - how radiant - in that moment that she had looked at him and smiled, just before everything had gone to shit.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked, suddenly realising that in his relief at seeing her alive he hadn’t checked before.

“Just some bruises,” Hermione said, steering him past what looked like a bundle of cloth but Harry knew very likely wasn’t. “Theo got me out of the way.”

“Bastard,” Harry sighed. “I guess I have to be grateful to him now.”

Hermione’s arm was warm under his hand, but Harry still felt goosebumps rise across her skin.

“I think he finds the animosity entertaining,” she said softly, as they reached the phone box in the corner of the atrium. “Though honestly, I still don’t know why you hate him so much.”

The door was hanging open, but when Hermione lifted the receiver and listened for a moment, relief crossed her features. “It’s working,” she said. “Come on, let’s -”

“How can you not know?” Harry asked as she propped him against the wall of the booth and closed the door behind them.

“Know what?” Hermione asked, staring up at him, the little line of confusion between her eyebrows so perfect that he could just -

“Whoa, there,” she said, reaching for his shoulder as he listed forward. Harry caught his weight against the opposite wall of the booth, hissing when his wrist twinged.

“Are you alright?” Hermione‘s eyes were wide with concern.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you all evening,” Harry said, aware that it didn’t make too much sense as an answer.

“OK,” Hermione nodded slowly. “Will you let me get you home first?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “Yeah, that’s probably best.”

 

 

* * *

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_

_15th December 2009, 9.43pm_

 

She hadn’t realised that her hands were shaking until she went to wring out the washcloth in the bathroom.

Hermione dropped the stained cotton and gripped the porcelain tightly, meeting her own gaze in the mirror above the sink. There was a bloodstain on her cheek, and she swiped viciously at it, leaving pinkish tracks of water dribbling towards her jaw.

“Get it together,” she breathed, raising her shoulders high and dropping her chin to take a deep breath.

“Does the Mudblood One need anything else?” Kreacher asked, sidling into the doorway. “Kreacher has given Master the Pain Potion, and administered the Dittany, as directed.”

“No, Kreacher,” Hermione said, swiping quickly at the tears on her cheeks. “You’ve done a wonderful job, thank you.”

The elf hovered in the doorway for a moment, his wizened features unreadable.

“Master needs the Mudblood One,” he said softly. “In the parlour, he asks for Miss Hermione.”

Hermione jerked her head round to look at him. “Kreacher -“

“Do not be getting used to it,” the elf sniffed, eyeing her closely, before abruptly disapparating.

“As if," Hermione laughed shakily to herself, smoothing her hair behind her ears before she stared back at her reflection. "Courage,” she told herself. “Be brave.”

She picked up the cloth, frowned at the rust-coloured stains, and then cast a  _Scourgify_ before opening the cabinet and removing the Skele-Gro that she suspected Harry needed, despite his denials.

“Hey,” he said when she stepped back into the parlour. “Where were you?”

“I wanted to rinse this,” Hermione said, holding up the rag she’d mopped his wounds with. “I know I could have just -“

“It feels more real when you do it the Muggle way, right?” Harry’s smile was crooked, but real, and Hermione smiled back, in spite of her shaking hands; in spite of everything that had happened.

“I have the Skele-Gro!” she said, remembering suddenly, and fishing in her pocket for the bottle.

“I really don’t think it’s broken,” Harry said, rolling up his cuff and examining his swollen wrist. “Just a sprain.”

“Still,” Hermione said, crossing the room and taking his hand, turning it gently so that Harry’s palm was open towards the ceiling. “Better safe than sorry.”

She pulled out her wand and started to wave it in the incantation for the _Fractus Egritudo_ , before Harry closed his fingers around hers.

“No,” he muttered. “Enough.”

“What are you -“

He didn’t let her finish the question before he had pulled her towards him, and then he was kissing her, their mouths meeting too hard in a clash of teeth and lips that should have been painful but instead was perfect - just _perfect_ -

“Hermione,” Harry breathed when they broke apart, one hand on the back of her neck and the other resting at the base of her throat. “Hermione I’ve been trying - I’ve wanted - “

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered. “Oh, I didn’t know how to tell you, how to -”

She was talking too much, but it didn’t matter, because he was kissing her again, and this time it was gentle: it was tender and wonderful and -

“I know,” Harry sighed, when she slipped her hands under his shirt to run them over his shoulders. "I couldn't, I thought -"

"Shh," Hermione told him, pressing her mouth gently to his. Harry followed the movement of her lips, winding his fingers into her hair. Hermione grazed her hands across the hard muscles of his back, her touch feather-light as she found old scars, and danced her fingers over new.

She knew the stories behind almost all of them, Hermione realised, as his arm snaked around her waist, drawing her into his lap. Her fingers traced the map of a territory that she had crossed many times, but now she found that Harry, her friend, was an undiscovered country.

“I thought you were dead,” she said, the words pressed from her mouth to his. “You were just lying there and -”

“I couldn’t have died without doing this.” His hands had found the zip at the back of her dress, and then the grubby velvet had fallen away so that there was nothing between them but skin and sharply caught breaths. “I wouldn’t have, Hermione, I -”

“I know,” she gasped, as his fingers crept up the sensitive curve of her waist. “I know,  _oh_ \- Harry - I -"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, oops, but louder?


	14. Outcome Space

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_

_16th December, 8.17am_

 

The morning sunlight was hitting Hermione’s face at an unfamiliar angle, and she wrinkled her nose, scrunching her eyes more firmly shut as she burrowed her way further into the warm bed. As she drew the duvet tighter around herself the soft scent of lavender rose from the cotton, mingled with a hint of broom polish and burnt sugar and -

“Oh my god.” Hermione’s eyes flew open as she realised the reason the light had seemed strange was because she wasn’t in her own bed, but in Harry’s.

_“Hermione.” He said her name in a way that he had never said it before, and Hermione shivered as his calloused fingers skated up the length of her naked spine._

Hardly daring to breathe, Hermione turned over in the bed, to find he was watching her.

_Her fingers were still shaking as she removed his glasses. Without them Harry’s eyes looked even greener, bright and wondering as he stared up at her. “My god,” he said. “You’re -”_

“Hey,” Harry’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I’m sorry, I - I didn’t want to wake you.” He smiled slightly, the soft little self-deprecating smile that he only ever showed to her.

_His nose was at the side of her neck, breathing her in as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders, and she felt him smile as she ducked away to chase the edge of the cotton with her mouth._

“I’m sorry!” she blurted, and Harry frowned, leaning up on one elbow. The duvet slid down to reveal a few more inches of golden pectoral and Hermione gave a squeak as she covered her eyes.

_He grasped the bottom of her dress and pulled it upwards, and Hermione lifted her arms as Harry drew it over her head. “Oh, my christ,” she heard him say, while her head was still stuck in the green velvet, and then he gave a final yank and as the dress fell away she gasped as Harry’s mouth found her breasts._

“What are you doing?” he asked, pulling her hands away from her face and frowning down at her. Hermione could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment, but for once she couldn’t think what to say, and she saw comprehension dawn in his eyes.

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione,” he said, sitting up and running his hands through his bird’s nest of hair -

_She ran her hands through his messy curls, leaning her head back as his tongue traced a path between her breasts, his plump bottom lip pressing against her sternum._

“I thought -” Harry turned to look at her, eyes wide. “I thought we were on the same page, I thought that -”

“I took advantage of you!” Hermione squeaked, and Harry’s expression of horror transformed abruptly into one of confusion. “You always say that you hate pain potion because you can’t think properly and -”

_They made it as far as the second landing before Harry tripped, stumbling backwards with a muffled curse as he landed on the polished floorboards, Hermione sprawled on top of him. “Oh,” he breathed, as she adjusted her weight and knelt upright. The cool moonlight made a chiaroscuro mystery of his face, every angle strange yet familiar._

“I didn’t take the pain potion,” he said abruptly.

“What?” Hermione asked, feeling stupid. “You didn’t - but Kreacher said -”

“Kreacher gave it to me,” Harry nodded, “as I imagine he was instructed to, but I didn’t take it.”

“But why wouldn’t you?” Hermione demanded. “You were hurt - your wrist, and the cuts on your face -”

“Hermione,” Harry sighed, giving her a look that told her she was being extremely dense. “Can you possibly, with that enormous brain of yours, think of any reason at all for me wanting to keep a clear head?”

“Um.” Now she felt even more stupid. “But -”

“I spent all evening trying to tell you,” Harry went on. “But between bloody Theo and fucking - whoever the _fuck_ is doing all this -” He looked away, blinking rapidly, before he met her eyes again. “But when we - when I - I really thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” Her pulse was so loud in her ears that she was almost surprised she could hear him.

_“Oh, Harry,” Hermione gasped at the feeling of him inside her, and Harry inhaled sharply against her cheek, his arm underneath her back, fingers grazing her ribs as she arched her back to meet his movements with her own, her blood pounding beneath her skin._

Harry’s eyes searched her face, and Hermione saw his throat move as he swallowed. “I’m - to be fair, I hadn’t really worked it out for myself until -”

“Worked what out?” Hermione whispered.

“I’m in love with you, Hermione,” Harry said in a rush, blushing furiously. “And actually I think I have been for a while, but it just didn’t occur to me that that was what it was, why I -”

“You’re in love with me?” Hermione repeated incredulously. She’d thought maybe a crush - fondness born of familiarity - she hadn’t dared -

“Is that so hard to believe?” Harry asked, looking down at her. The lines of his face were drawn into a sadness that matched his voice; the shadow of stubble across his chin making the hollows of his cheeks more prominent as he folded his lips together.

“When have I ever doubted you?” Hermione drew herself upright, careful not to let the duvet drop as she reached out and tucked his hair behind his ear.

Harry shook his head, his eyes not moving from her face. “Never,” he said. “You’ve never -”

“Well then,” she murmured, shifting onto her knees and finally releasing her hold on the duvet as she leaned towards him.

I love you, _she wanted to say, as his teeth clashed against hers, the kiss sloppy and eager and more delightful than anything she could ever possibly have imagined._ I love you, Harry Potter, I -

Hermione never usually thought of herself as much of a seductress - hadn’t really had the opportunity - but Harry was looking at her as though she were something strange and wonderful that he had never seen before, and when she leaned her forehead against his he released a shaky sigh, before looping his arm around her waist and pulling her into his lap.

“I'm in love with you, too,” she breathed, and Harry shivered as the words fell onto his skin. “But you’re my best friend, and I didn’t want -”

“To ruin it?” Harry asked, lifting his chin to look her in the eye. His thumbs were tracing tiny circles on either side of her waist, and Hermione’s lips formed a little ‘O’ as she canted her hips towards his, acutely aware that they were both completely naked. “How could you?” he murmured, “how could you possibly think -”

“Because overthinking is what I do best,” Hermione said, digging her nails into the firm muscle that hugged his shoulder blade as his hand moved between them and -

Harry huffed a laugh into her collarbone. “Why is that a turn-on?” he murmured, and Hermione shook her head as his fingers found their goal and _stroked_ \- and she was so ready for him, so filled with wanting - and she hadn’t realised - hadn’t remembered -

_She was coming apart - coming apart under the touch of his hands and the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes when he whispered her name and -_

“Can I -” Harry asked, and she nodded, not trusting her voice as he moved his hand away and shifted slightly and then - then -

“I dreamed of this,” he told her, his voice rough and his breath coming in pants against the base of her neck. “I dreamed of this and I dreamed of you but I never thought -”

“Me neither,” she said, moaning with disappointment as he withdrew, before he pushed her onto her back and covered her body with his, and Hermione lifted her leg, pressing her heel into the concavity at the side of his buttock as he entered her again.

It was everything she had wanted, and nothing like she had ever imagined it would be, and she felt her breaths becoming ragged as Harry touched her again, matching the movements of his thumb to those of his hips.

It felt like magic - like the sparks of power that ran down your arms and formed themselves into spells - like wonder and hope and joy and -

“I -” Hermione gasped, but before she could finish the thought her mind had gone blank and she was lost - lost to him and only him and _Harry_ and -

He bucked against her, breath stuttering and eyes clenching shut as he followed her over the edge - over into - “ _Hermione_ ” - and she could only clasp him tighter against her, wanting never to let go, to always feel his heart beating as though it were a part of her own body.

His forehead was damp with sweat when she pushed his hair back, marvelling at the way a face that she had known for more than half her life could suddenly look so entirely different in the light of -

There was a sharp crack, and they sprang apart, Harry sitting bolt upright, the wand that he had grabbed from under the pillow, which Hermione suddenly realised was _hers_ , pointed towards where Kreacher stood at the foot of the bed, bent almost double into a deep bow.

“Begging the Master’s pardon,” he said, his words half muffled as he directed them at the floor, “but it seems yous is finished, and the Muggle Cousin is here to see Master.”

“Unbelievable,” Harry sighed, the tension leaving his body as he dragged his wandless hand across his face. “How long has he been here?”

“Not long, Master,” Kreacher nodded, sneaking a glance at them. Hermione could have sworn he was smiling. “Kreacher is giving him coffee and telling him to wait in the lower drawing room, as is befitting his station, while Master attends to the needs of the Mudblood One.”

She wasn’t imagining the smile this time, and Harry growled with frustration. “You’d better be kidding, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher is sorry, Master,” the elf straightened up and began to wring his hands. His attempt at contrition was ruined by his sly grin. “Was that not what you was doing?”  

“You are a vile creature,” Harry grumbled, though he, too, was smiling slightly. “Tell him I’ll - that we’ll -” he corrected himself with a glance at Hermione “- be down shortly. And make some more coffee, while you’re at it.”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher bowed deeply once more, before disapparating.

“Well, that’s my plans for the morning derailed,” Harry sighed, giving her a sidelong glance, and Hermione laughed.

“Come on,” she said, nudging his shoulder gently, “we’d better go see what Dudley wants.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't post yesterday! Turns out weekends in the run up to Christmas are insane, who knew?!?


	15. Mutual Knowledge

_ No. 12 Grimmauld Place _

_ 16th December 2009, 9.03am _

 

Harry hadn’t realised until Kreacher had produced the plans for the house that the lower drawing room was actually a logical impossibility - a little pocket of space tacked onto the narrow, Victorian arrangement of the terrace. Of course, since then, numerous other hidden rooms had appeared, and continued to appear. 

The latest example of this was a lady’s dressing room, the door of which had sprung open in the panelled wall of Harry’s bedroom just now as he had been sifting through his clothes looking for something that Hermione could wear (her green velvet dress from the night before being both bloodstained and entirely inappropriate as daywear). 

He and Hermione stood in the doorway, gaping at the twin rails of extremely gothic-looking dresses, damask-upholstered chaise longue, three finely-worked chests of drawers, and a beautiful matching dressing table whose marble top was dotted with little boxes that Harry wasn’t going to touch without performing every counter-curse he knew.

“What do you think?” he asked her, nodding at the black and green lace gown that had been helpfully draped over the chaise.

“Not on your life,” she answered, shaking her head vehemently. There was a rumbling sound, and one of the drawers shot forward, violently exhaling a musty smell and a flurry of clothes moths. 

“Oh, god.” Hermione wrinkled her nose and pulled her wand from behind her ear. “ _ Tineidae Exumai!” _

There was a flash of light, and the moths fell harmlessly to the floor. Hermione replaced her wand behind her ear, sighed, and laid her hand gently the wall. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture,” she said gently. “But that’s really not my style.” 

The left hand clothes-rail gave a thoughtful rustle, and a pair of black trousers flew out, hitting Hermione squarely in the face. 

“Right,” she said, holding them up. From what Harry could tell, they were hilariously long in the leg. “Well, I deserved that,” Hermione went on “and these should work if I cuff them. Just a shirt then, I guess,” she said, turning to Harry, and he nodded. 

She was forever borrowing his jumpers, but there was something about watching Hermione button herself into one of his white cotton shirts that Harry found deeply thrilling. Perhaps it was that he now knew enough about what lay underneath for his imagination to follow the drape of the fabric and -

“What?” Hermione asked, and Harry realised he had been staring. She straightened up from rolling the ankles of the trousers, and placed her hands on her hips. “Do I look ridiculous?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No you look - what’s the opposite of ridiculous?”

Hermione’s cheeks turned pink, and Harry reached for her. It was such a simple action, and yet when she allowed him to pull her close; when she placed her hands on his chest and looked up at him, her face still slightly flushed and her eyes deep and dark; he couldn’t think of anything that had ever rivalled it for wonder.

He paused with his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, waiting for the moment she changed her mind, decided that she had made a mistake after all, but instead Hermione tipped her chin so that their mouths met, and Harry allowed himself to kiss her lazily, hands drifting down her back to rest at the top of her bum. 

Hermione fisted her hands in his shirt, pressing herself against him, and for a moment he forgot that Dudley was waiting downstairs - forgot that there was anything but this room and this kiss and Hermione and -

“Ahem,” he said, drawing back. “We should probably -”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded emphatically. “Yes, we definitely should. Why don’t - I’ll follow you.” 

As he opened the bedroom door and started down the stairs, Harry wished that he’d had more time to enjoy watching her being so flustered. But, he reasoned, plenty of time for that, unless -

“What are you doing?” Hermione yelped, as Harry spun on his toes on the last step, grabbing her by the waist.

“Mistletoe,” he replied, pointing upwards.

Hermione followed the direction of his finger, and frowned slightly at the large sprig that had appeared in the middle of the landing. “I’m sure that wasn’t there last ni- _ mmf _ .”

“Sorry,” Harry said as he released her, and Hermione narrowed her eyes playfully at him. “What?” he asked innocently. “It’s the  _ rules _ , Hermione, and we all know how much you love rules.” 

“Get in there before I hex you,” she replied, pointing to the door of the lower drawing room, and Harry laughed, planted another quick peck on her lips, and then bolted. 

Dudley was standing by the window, a slight frown on his face as he contemplated the garden below. 

While Sirius was still alive this room had been one of the dingiest corners of 12 Grimmauld Place: north-facing, with most of the natural light that flooded the upper parts of the house blocked by the overgrown garden trees and the row of houses that formed the next street to the north. Now, however, the lower drawing room was light and airy, the windows having apparently angled themselves to catch the sunlight that was reflected from the neighbours’, and the recalcitrant soot-stained wallpaper mysteriously deciding to become responsive to  _ Scourgify  _ charms. Still, the upper drawing room was bigger, and nicer, which meant that this room was somewhat neglected.

It would make a nice study for Hermione, Harry found himself thinking, before deciding that he probably needed to get a handle on his own giddiness. 

Dudley turned at the sound of the door. He was holding a very small, chipped coffee cup in his hand, and Harry frowned at this sign of Kreacher’s disfavour before he met his cousin’s eyes. Dudley smiled tightly, then raised his eyebrows slightly as he took in what was no doubt the dire state of Harry’s hair.

“Sorry to disturb,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. His gaze moved over Harry’s shoulder, to where Hermione had followed him into the room, and Dudley gave her a quick up and down, before his smile edged dangerously close to a smirk. “Busy morning?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Harry sniffed. Kreacher chose that moment to pop into existence in the corner, setting out a large cafetière and two more cups as Dudley tried to pretend the elf’s appearance hadn’t made him jump. 

“Is Master needing anything else?” Kreacher asked, with exaggerated servility, even by his standards. 

“No,” Harry growled. “Go and make yourself useful in the kitchen.” 

“Very good, Master,” Kreacher bowed and disapparated. 

“He hates me,” Dudley observed. “This coffee is foul.”

“Have some fresh from the pot,” Harry sighed. “And it isn’t about you, not really.”

“It took him seven years to even look directly at me,” Hermione said, pouring coffee into the two cups that Kreacher had left, then holding the cafetière out to Dudley. “That coffee’s a sign of great favour.” 

“Is it,” Dudley said drily, opening the sash window and tipping the dregs from his cup before he refilled it. “Well, lucky me.”

“Speaking of your good fortune,” Harry said. “Where’s Pansy?”

“I left her with Sahra,” Dudley sighed.

“Is that a good idea?” Hermione asked. “Pansy’s not -”

“Sahra can handle herself,” Dudley smirked. “The DCI called her ‘extremely capable’ the other day, which is practically a recommendation for sainthood, coming from him.”

“If you say so,” Harry said, meeting Hermione’s look with a shrug. “What brings you here then?”

“Fitzgibbons,” Dudley said, picking up a file that had been lying on the coffee table. “Turned up in Anglesey, of all places. No memory of how she got there, and very patchy in the days leading up to of Parkinson’s arrest."

“Can I have a look?” Hermione asked, and Dudley nodded, passing the file across to her. She sat down and started to leaf through the report, while Dudley turned his attention back to Harry, frowning slightly. 

“What happened to you?” he asked, and Harry grimaced, his hand flying to the half-healed cuts where his cheek had been pressed into the glass-strewn floor of the Ministry. He forgot sometimes that Dittany, while effective, was far from instantaneous in its healing effects. 

“There was a - well, I guess you’d call it a bombing, at the Ministry Christmas party last night.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Dudley’s face paled. “Are you -”

“We’re fine,” Harry said. “I don’t know how many casualties there were exactly, but it was fairly localised.” 

“Shacklebolt?” Dudley asked, and Harry opened his mouth, then realising he didn’t actually know, frowned and looked at Hermione. 

“He was alright,” she said, without looking up from the report on Fitzgibbons’s reappearance. “He was on the dancefloor with Andromeda, who is also fine.” This time Hermione did look up, offering Harry a quick smile. 

“Was it a remote device or -”

“Suicide,” Harry said. “You remember Marcus?” 

“From the pub?” Dudley asked. “The landlord? I’d never have had him down as -”

“We think it was another Invocation,” Harry said. “He was a pureblood, and fairly vulnerable when you think about it - not a lot of friends, no close family left.”

“Do you think the Aurors will start making a list of people who might fit that profile?” Dudley asked. “Only, that’s what we’d try and do.”

“I’ll talk to Ron,” Harry nodded. “That’s a good shout.” 

“Thanks, Dudley,” Hermione said, rising and handing him the file. “I don’t think it sounds as though there’s any lasting spell-damage, but would you like me to arrange for her to be seen by a Healer to make sure?” 

“Probably best,” Dudley nodded. “Belt and braces and all that.” He paused, looking distinctly uncomfortable, before asking, “Can I tell Pansy about the - the Ministry thing, or…”

Harry looked at Hermione, who grimaced. “She should probably know,” she said. “I imagine the Aurors will want to interview her again to see if there’s a link with Marcus, and it would come as a nasty shock.” 

“Right,” Dudley nodded. “Guess I should probably get back then. Erm.” He started fidgeting with his tie. “Any idea yet how much longer I’ll have to -”

“Sorry mate,” Harry spread his hands helplessly. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He smiled at the look of resignation on Dudley’s face. “That bad, huh?” 

“I mean, it’s fine, really,” Dudley sighed. “She just won’t stop -”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in tomorrow, folks


	16. Pareto Efficiency

_Tulse Hill, South London_

_16th December 2009, 11.27am_

 

“Guv,” Sahra said as she threw open the door. “She just won’t stop _flirting_.”

“Ah,” Dudley said, taking in his usually unflappable DS’s slightly wild-eyed appearance. “Not just me then?”

“At this point I think she’d probably try it on with a brick wall,” Sahra said darkly, casting a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder.

“She hasn’t done anything else?” Dudley asked as he unwound his scarf and hung it on the hook in hallway, followed by his coat.

“Well,” Sahra said, crossing her arms and looking distinctly shifty. “Erm. She’s been keeping herself busy.” Dudley opened his mouth to ask her to elaborate, then sniffed at the air, and frowned.

“Is that -”

“See you for yourself.” Sahra jerked her chin in the direction of the kitchen, and Dudley followed the smell of baking along the hallway, opening the door with a sense of deep trepidation to find -

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

Every surface was hidden beneath a profusion of bowls, a great mound of jewel-coloured dried fruits, and bags of flour and sugar that didn’t look like anything Dudley had ever seen in a supermarket. Amidst the chaos, Pansy stood with her back to him, apparently measuring out icing sugar, if the clouds of white powder in the air were anything to go by. Next to her stood Theo, holding a bowl that he was running a finger around the inside of.

“Oh,” he said, spotting Dudley, frozen in the doorway. “You’re back.”

Pansy started, and turned around. She had icing sugar on her nose. “Detective Inspector!” she said, her tone suggesting that nothing could have delighted her more at that moment than for him to appear in the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t eat that,” Dudley said automatically to Theo, who paused with his cake-mix-laden finger halfway to his mouth. “Salmonella.”

Theo looked at Pansy, who shrugged. “Sounds fake,” she said, and Theo grinned before popping his finger into his mouth. 

“Mm,” he hummed, hazel eyes dancing. “We’ve been watching your Nigella on the tellyvision.”

“Right,” Dudley frowned, still trying and failing to take in the destruction of his kitchen. “But where did all this -”

“Come from?” Theo asked. “Well, I came over to tell Pansy about what happened at the Ministry last night.” His expression sobered for a moment, and Dudley had a brief, chilling impression of what it might be like to face Theodore Nott in a fight.

“Harry told me,” he said, before looking at Pansy. “Have you felt anything more -” 

“Nothing,” Pansy shook her head, before setting the sieve aside. “The Aurors have requested an interview with me tomorrow morning,” she went on, frowning down at what appeared to be a piece of parchment. “But since I’ve never been very good at sitting and doing nothing, I wanted some stress relief.”

“Right,” Dudley said. “That much I can follow, but why -”

“My fault, Guv,” Sahra said, coming into the kitchen behind him. “I suggested watching some TV.”

“It’s  _utterly_ bizarre,” Pansy said, straightening up and turning towards the oven. “And Nigella wouldn’t answer any of our questions, but she did tell us how to make Christmas things.”

“So I put in an owl order,” Theo shrugged, “and here we are.”

Dudley checked his watch, confirming that he had only been gone for three hours. “And you managed to get -”

“Try one,” Pansy said, grabbing a biscuit from the tray she had just removed from the oven and bounding across the room to hold it up to Dudley’s mouth.

Cornered, he shot a panicked glance towards Theo, who just smiled wickedly. Seeing no alternative, Dudley opened his mouth, and took a bite.

“S’hot,” he said thickly, trying to suck in a little air. Once he was able to taste it, he found that the biscuit was surprisingly good - thin and crisp, with a subtle blend of spices. “Mmf,” he nodded, taking the rest of it from Pansy’s hand.

“Good, aren’t they?” she purred. “Oh dear, you’ve got -” she brought her hand up and swiped a crumb from Dudley’s upper lip, before sucking it from her own finger, meeting his eyes as she did so.

Sahra made a choking noise behind him, but Dudley barely heard her above the buzzing sound in his ears as all of his blood tried to evacuate his brain.

“Right,” he said. “Yes. Very good. I - erm - are you allowed to be doing this?”

“No magic,” Pansy smiled, holding up her hands. “I promise, I’m behaving myself.” She glanced towards Theo, who cleared his throat and attempted to look serious.

“The Aurors are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry,” he said, “so really it’s just a case of sitting tight for the moment, and trying to - er -” his eyes flicked around the kitchen, and his mouth twitched. “Keep Pansy out of trouble.”

“Great,” Dudley sighed. “And what would you suggest I do with three hundred biscuits?”

 

* * *

_Bloomsbury, Central London_

_17th December 2009, 8.27pm_

 

“How -” 

“Don’t.”

“But -”

“Seriously.”

“I just -”

“Harry,” Dudley sighed, setting his glass down and looking his cousin squarely in the eye. “I honestly don’t know how this happened.”

“Fair enough,” Harry nodded. He reached for another biscuit, watching as Dudley’s dour-looking boss said something that made Kingsley laugh heartily. “You know, I’ve no idea how Nightingale does that.”

“Does what?” Dudley asked.

Harry glanced at him in time to see Dudley look guiltily away from where Pansy was stood between Hermione and Theo on the other side of the room, both of whom were trying to look like they weren’t chaperoning her.

“Oh, Dudley,” he said, trying his best not to start laughing. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?” Dudley asked, turning red. “I’m not - it isn’t - shut up.”

“Is that how she persuaded you to organise an impromptu Christmas ‘do?” Harry said, his eyes moving around the large atrium of Dudley’s departmental headquarters, with its various busts and ornamental ironwork. "Feminine wiles?"

“She di- it wasn’t impromptu,” Dudley said. “But it was supposed to be a much smaller thing.”

“You mean you didn’t invite me to your Christmas party?” Harry gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “I am _hurt_ , Dudley, I thought we were -”

“And my invite to your Christmas drinks got lost in the post, did it?” Dudley asked pointedly.

“Fair enough,” Harry shrugged, before wincing. “Although I daresay that worked out for the best.”

“Yes,” Dudley inclined his chin. “Do you really think they’ll try something this evening?”

“Honestly?” Harry said. “I’ve no idea. But I think having us here as reinforcements can’t be a bad thing, since you insisted on bringing Pansy.”

“I did not -” Dudley spluttered, before catching sight of Harry’s smirk. “Oh, honestly, fuck you. What was I supposed to do, leave her at home?”

“I’m sure we’d have found a babysitter,” Harry pointed out.

“Yeah well,” Dudley muttered. “That’s what I _asked_ Nott to do, but of course once the pair of them got wind that there was a party -”

“Ah,” Harry said. “Yes, that does make sense. Was this before or after she started baking?”

“After,” Dudley said, narrowing his eyes at the trestle table that had been set up in front of a statue of Sir Isaac Newton, which was heaving under the weight of baked goods that Pansy had produced over the past two days. “God knows what I’d have done with all of that.”

_"I wasn't really looking forward to having to interview her again," Ron said, as Harry read through the names Pansy had given the Aurors earlier that morning, marking off those that he knew. "But it turns out she's like, absolutely incredible at baking."_

_Harry lifted his gaze from the parchment, where he had just placed a tick next to 'Lee, Barnaby' and raised his eyebrows at Ron. "Can I suggest you don't tell Callie that?"_

_"Do I look like I have a deathwish?" Ron's face scrunched into an expression of disdain. "Even I'm not that stupid."_

Harry smiled slightly, then took another bite of his mince pie. He had to admit, they were nearly as good as Kreacher's, which was quite a feat, especially considering Pansy had made them without magic.  

He looked back at Dudley, and watched as his cousin's eyes drifted back to the little huddle opposite, where Pansy was just taking a sip of champagne. She tipped her head to one side before she frowned, and squinted into the glass.

“What is she _doing?_ ” Dudley murmured, and Harry snorted.

“Elf champagne makes music play in your head,” he said. “I expect she’s never had the Muggle stuff before.”

“It plays - you know what, I’m not even surprised,” Dudley sighed.

“You can try it at Christmas,” Harry said. “In fact, it’s probably a good thing I’ve told you now, otherwise it comes as a bit of a shock the first time you have it.”

“Thanks,” Dudley said sarcastically. “Let me know if you think of any more helpful information, won’t you?”

“I’ll do that,” Harry grinned. “It’s going to be fun.”

“I’m sure,” Dudley muttered. “As long as some maniac doesn’t murder us all before then.”

“Well, that’s cheerful.” Harry rolled his eyes and looked back to the other side of the room, to find Hermione looking at him. She smiled, tilting her glass towards him, and he felt his heart jump in his chest.

“Don't worry, Big D," he said. "I’ve no intention of getting murdered just yet."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Famous last words..?
> 
> A little more here for those among us who are Rivers of London fans too...


	17. Hicks Optimal

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place_

_19th December 2009, 8.15am_

 

“Hello-oh?”

Teddy’s clarion bell of a voice drifted up through the house, and Harry broke off from kissing Hermione, craning his neck to try and see the clock on his bedside table.

“It can’t be the -”

“Harry?” Andromeda’s voice followed Teddy’s. “Are you here?”

“Busted,” Hermione smirked, before pushing him off the bed.

“Thanks for that,” Harry grinned, gripping the edge of the bed to pick himself up off the floor.

“You’re welcome,” Hermione said sweetly, before Harry wrenched the duvet away and she squeaked as cold air met naked skin.

“Uncle Harry!” Teddy’s voice sounded closer now, and Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling her laughter as she picked her way round the bed and towards the dressing room. “What are you doing in there?”

“Hey, Tedster,” Harry said, opening the door a crack and leaning his head around it. “Great to see you! Tell your nan I’ll be right down, would you?”

“Were you still in bed?” Teddy asked, disbelieving. His hair was a bright, buttercup shade of yellow. “At Hogwarts they make us get up at seven, every day!”

“I remember,” Harry nodded, going to close the door. 

“And if you aren’t up by half-past seven, you miss breakfast!” Teddy went on, before frowning. “Though, the house elves usually give you some leftovers, if you ask nicely,” he said.

“Well,” Harry said. “Why don’t you find Kreacher and ask if he’ll -”

There was a _thump_ and a muffled curse from the direction of the dressing room, and Teddy’s face turned bright with mischief as his hair went pink, making him look so like Tonks that Harry almost gasped.

“I have to share a room with six other boys, too,” Teddy said. “Do _you_ share a room with someone, Uncle Harry?”

“That,” Harry said, “is none of your business.”

“ _I know all about sex now!_ ” Teddy yelled as Harry closed the door on him. “ _Terrwyn Davies told me everything!_ ”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, before looking up to see Hermione nearly doubled over in silent laughter.

“I’m sorry,” she said, catching sight of his glare. “I’m sorry, I just can’t - the look on your face!”

“I don’t know what you think is so funny,” Harry grumbled. “You’re dressed, so you’re facing him first.”

He took in her outfit as he spoke, noting the improvement on the house’s first recalcitrant efforts. The crimson trousers fit Hermione as though they’d been tailored, and the cream sweater was soft and luxurious.

She stretched her arms over her head, apparently unconcerned by the prospect of facing down an eleven-year-old. Harry caught a flash of tanned stomach, and felt his eagerness for breakfast wane even more.

“Ah-ah,” Hermione said, when he stepped towards her, though she allowed herself to be caught in his arms. “Do you really want to keep that poor little boy waiting any longer than he needs to?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “How dare you guilt-trip me like that,” he murmured, bringing his mouth to a particular spot on the side of her neck that he had discovered over their past few days of extracurricular activities.

Hermione shivered against him, and then turned her glowing brown eyes up towards his, smiling gently as she pushed his glasses up his nose. “It’s almost like I know you _really well_ ,” she murmured, before pressing a quick peck to his lips and slipping out of his grasp.

“And put some clothes on,” she said over her shoulder, before she slipped out of the door.

By the time he arrived downstairs, towelling his hastily-washed hair, Hermione and Andromeda were sat on one side of the large kitchen table, watching Teddy demolish a stack of toast. Kreacher was tending to the stove, and the kitchen smelled of frying bacon.

“Do they not feed you there?” Harry asked, snatching a piece from Teddy’s plate and ruffling his hair, which turned blue with delight. “Oh shit, bleurgh” he said, having taken a bite and realising it had been spread with Marmite.

“Harry,” Andromeda said fondly, rolling her eyes. “Language.”

“Sorry Andy,” he said, accepting the cup of coffee that Kreacher presented him with, and grinning when he caught Teddy’s eye.

The boy giggled, stuffing another piece of toast in his mouth. “Shit,” he said, the word muffled by half-chewed bread.

“Edward Maelgwyn Lupin!” Andromeda admonished him sharply. “Just because your uncle Harry -”

Teddy swallowed his mouthful of toast, then pointed at Hermione. “She taught me!”

Harry choked on his coffee, seeing his own surprise reflected on Andromeda’s face as they turned to look at Hermione, who shifted guiltily in her seat.

“I didn’t want him to go to school not _knowing_ ,” she said. “Can you imagine how embarrassing that was to have to try and look up swear words in the Hogwarts library?”

“My god,” Harry said. “It was you, this whole time!”

“What was?” said Hermione, looking alarmed.

“The bad influence.” Harry slid into the seat next to Teddy, and nudged Hermione’s foot with his.

“Well _that’s_ hardly surprising,” Andromeda sniffed. “She is the clever one, after all.”

“Thanks for that,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow at Teddy, who hid his face behind his hands, then opened them to reveal an enormous moustache that Harry recognised as having being copied from Slughorn.

“Very fetching,” Hermione commented, shifting in her chair as Kreacher placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. “Well, you’re obviously so happy to be home that school must be awful.”

“Nooo,” Teddy shook his head, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. “It’s brilliant! Hogwarts is the best place in the world and I have -”

He launched into a lengthy soliloquy about the various scrapes that he had got into over the course of his first term, that Harry was only half-listening to, since Hermione’s toes were lazily stroking up and down the inside of his leg.

“And _then_ the whole box of pyrotechtrix _exploded_ ,” Teddy said, gesturing so hugely that he nearly hit Kreacher, who was attempting to place more bacon on his plate. The elf wobbled, kept his balance, and then deposited the remaining rashers in front of Teddy. “And Professor McGonagall gave _all_ of us detention, but it was alright, because we had to clean the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey gave everyone chocolate afterwards.”

“Detention?” Harry said, looking at Andromeda.

“Don’t even try it,” she said. “There is no moral high ground here for you, Harry Potter.” She flashed him a smile that made her look very like Sirius. “Or did you not manage to lose 150 points in one go in your first year?”

“That wasn’t _just_ me,” Harry protested, as Teddy goggled at him. “Uncle Draco was there too.”

“Uncle Draco says you’re a _fiend_ ,” Teddy said, and Harry scowled.

“Firstly, he’s one to talk, and secondly, when did he say this?”

“He writes to me,” Teddy said blithely, though his hair was turning pink again.

Harry looked at Andromeda, who shrugged. “Family is important,” she said, setting her cup down on the table. “On the subject of which, now that Teddy is old enough, Narcissa and I have decided to celebrate Yule this year, and I was wondering whether the two of you are free?”

“Both of us?” Hermione asked.

“Indeed,” Andromeda said. “Kingsley said you were looking very cosy at Inspector Nightingale’s party.”

Harry enjoyed the sight of Hermione blushing to the roots of her hair, before he nodded. “I think we can probably make it,” he said.

“Marvellous,” Andromeda smiled. “We will be having it at the Black Family Trilithon, and the festivities will begin at dusk.”

“You have to wear silver robes” Teddy said, practically fizzing with excitement. “And there’ll be cauldron cakes, and cider, and Granny’s going to wear a _crown_ -”

“My mother had emerald and ruby Yule diadems made for us when we were girls,” Andromeda sighed. “Holly, you see.”

“- and there’s a bonfire, and we get to stay up _all night_ ,” Teddy finished breathlessly, eyes shining.

“I didn’t realise there were any Trilithons still in use in Britain,” Hermione said, her eyebrows rising. “Is it functional or -”

“We have been trying to restore it,” Andromeda said. “Cissy and I are hopeful that a gathering of this kind will prove just the tonic.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Hermione nodded, her eyes flicking towards Harry. “We’ll definitely be there.”

“Even if it means having to spend the evening with Malfoy.” Harry gave a long-suffering sigh, then poked Teddy playfully in the ribs when he stuck his tongue out at him. “And you’re still happy to come here for Christmas, right?”

“Of _course_ ,” Teddy said, nodding eagerly, before he went still, as though something had just occurred to him. “Kreacher will be cooking, right Uncle Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry rolled his eyes, “Kreacher will be -”

“Can Kreacher make anything special for the young Master?” Kreacher asked eagerly, appearing at Teddy’s elbow. “A preferred dessert, perhaps? A favourite drink?”

Teddy’s face lit up. “Can I have a banana split instead of Christmas pudding?” he said. “And extra roast potatoes with supper? And brussels sprouts with bacon and -”

“Teddy -”  Andromeda said warningly.

“Yes, Granny.” Teddy slumped in his chair, but the moment Andromeda looked back towards Hermione, Harry saw Kreacher lean in and start whispering in the boy’s ear.

He turned his attention back to Hermione, who was asking Andromeda more questions about the Trilithon. As soon as there was a break in the conversation, he leaned forward.

“When were you speaking to Kingsley?” he asked innocently.

“Oh,” Andromeda said, patting her hair. “We’re old friends.”

“He stays over sometimes,” Teddy piped up. “I think he’s Granny’s friend the same way Auntie Hermione is _your_ friend.”

“ _Teddy!_ ” Andromeda admonished him, as Hermione and Harry both struggled valiantly not to laugh. “Honestly, child, you haven’t even been home for a full day and already -”

“What?” Teddy asked. “You’re all grown-ups. It’s allowed.” He blinked, then frowned. “It is allowed, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, reaching across the table and lacing her fingers with Harry’s. “It’s definitely allowed.”

Andromeda looked away, and Harry was fairly sure he saw her swipe at her eyes, but he was distracted by the flames in the inglenook fireplace flaring green, and Ron stepping out.

“Morning all,” he said, his eyes dipping towards the plate of sausages on the table, and then landing on Harry and Hermione’s joined hands. “Anything I should know?” he asked. 

“How many times,” Hermione asked Harry, “have I told you to not to leave your Floo open?”

“And miss awkward situations like having to tell your best-friend-slash-ex-boyfriend you’ve finally decided to get together?” Ron crowed, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he leaned across to pinch a chipolata. “That’s no fun.”

“Uncle Ron is your ex-boyfriend?” Teddy asked, turning to frown at Harry.

“Not quite,” Harry said, ignoring Ron’s guffaw. “ _Not_ that there would be anything wrong with that.”

“You should be so lucky,” Ron snorted. “I’m out of his league,” he told Teddy, with a wink.

“Well thanks for _that_ ,” Hermione sighed, pushing herself up from the table. “Always a pleasure,” she told Ron, leaning in to kiss his cheek, before she turned to address the others. “I’d love to stay, but I’ve got witness interviews for the Veela case this afternoon, and -”

“No, you go on,” Harry said, waving his hand. “There definitely aren’t any conversations to be had here that you could be at all helpful with.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hermione smiled. She started towards the door, and then paused, turning on the ball of her foot, before dipping her head to press a kiss to the edge of Harry’s mouth.

He’d leaned into it before he realised what he was doing, and flinched when Teddy went “EWW.”

Harry glanced guiltily at Ron, who was nonchalantly helping himself to some of the bacon left on Teddy’s plate. “Callie owes me ten galleons,” he grinned.


	18. Grand Coalition

_Tulse Hill, South London_

_20th December 2009, 9.53pm_

 

So far today, she had made three batches of biscuits, as well as two trays of Christmas muffins, and a large and very sticky apple cake, topped with mincemeat crumble.

Now, Pansy pressed her knuckles into the panettone dough, leaning hard so that her fists sank through and hit the cool porcelain of the bowl. She inhaled deeply, focusing on the feeling, her eyes flicking back to the recipe she had copied from Sahra’s compu-thingammy.

_Knead vigorously for fifteen minutes until the dough passes the windowpane test._

She frowned down at the bowl again. It had a while to go yet before it reached that point, and Pansy pummelled the mixture hard, trying to lose herself in the physical sensation as she worked it.

The more her shoulders ached, the more the muscles at the back of her arms began to burn, the more she could pretend that she couldn’t hear the little voice at the back of her mind. The quiet, reasonable tone. The impression of a head tipped to one side in polite enquiry.

_Pansy._

She gritted her teeth until she could hear white noise in her ears, turning the dough in her hands and slapping the flats of her palms against it.

 _Pansy_.

“No,” she hissed, stretching the dough between her fingers, and then reaching for the butter.

_Where are you?_

Along her spine she felt a prickle of magic that wasn’t her own. Around her throat, the sensation of hands closing. Down her arms, a sizzling flare of power, and lines webbed across the porcelain of the bowl before it shattered, dough oozing out onto the counter.

“What’s going on?”

Pansy jumped at the sound of Dudley’s voice behind her. She hadn’t heard him come in, and as she turned round she struggled to summon her usual teasing smile. “I got a little… over-zealous,” she said blithely, waving casually at the bowl.

Too late, she realised her hand was shaking, and she saw the moment Dudley spotted it.

“Stop lying,” he said, taking a step towards her. Pansy backed up, her tailbone bumping against the counter.

“Lying?” she said, but her voice came out too high; too brittle; and Dudley shook his head slowly.

“Stop it," he repeated, moving closer again. His jaw was set, his gaze steady on her own, and for a moment Pansy found herself distracted by the brute handsomeness of his features.

Adulthood had worked quite a feat upon Dudley Dursley’s face, if the old pictures of him and his mother were anything to go by. The brief flicker of surprise that Pansy saw on Harry’s face every time Dudley responded to one of his jokes, or said something kind or self-deprecating, told her that it had probably worked a feat on his personality, too.

“The baking helps, doesn’t it?” Dudley said now, and Pansy could have laughed that of all the people to see through her new-found obsession it would be this - this _Muggle_. Theo was going to laugh until he made himself sick. As it was, she was too preoccupied trying to hold herself completely rigid against an incoming wave of compulsive force.

 _Tell me where you are_.

Her vision split; doubled; and suddenly she could see the black-gloved hands reaching for her, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the tail of the snake tattoo emerging from the sleeve to curl around a forearm. Pansy spasmed, bending at the waist, her breath coming in a harsh gasp. Under her skin, her magic twisted in a grip that wasn’t her own, and pain blossomed, bright and true.

_Pansy!_

“Whoa there.” Dudley went to brace her shoulders, but Pansy threw up an arm and he recoiled as though he had been burned.

“Don’t touch me,” she whimpered. “Don’t - don’t -”

“What can I do?” he asked. “Can I - should I call Harry?”

“No.” She managed to force the word out between her clenched teeth. “The magic - it won’t -”

Dudley’s eyes left her briefly to look at the stacks of cooking equipment. “Less magic,” he said, “not more, right?”

Pansy nodded, the movement not much more than a jerk of her chin. She could feel witchlight dancing up her spine, could feel the nerves jumping and twitching under her skin, threatening to tear her apart, before -

“What are you doing?” she sobbed, as Dudley’s arms folded around her, holding her tight against him even though she knew the power coursing through her must be burning him too.

“Less magic,” Dudley growled. “You can’t get less magic than me.”

She wanted to argue with him, wanted to push him away, prevent another person getting hurt because of her, but instead Pansy found herself burying her face in his shoulder, gripping so tightly against his back that she would have drawn blood had it not been for his winter-weight suit.

He was a big man, broad-shouldered and solidly built, and Pansy imagined herself swallowed in Dudley’s grip, hidden from view behind his reassuring bulk. As she did so, she could feel the compulsion waning, the hold of the hostile magic loosening. Behind it, there was a final lick of frustration, accompanied by a slow shake of the head at the other end of the tether.

 _You can’t hide forever_.

There were still tremors running up and down her arms, but the tension had dissolved, and Pansy allowed herself to slump against Dudley, harsh breaths catching in her throat.

“Why did you do that?” she whispered, once she could speak without gasping. Dudley leaned away, looking surprised.

He looked even more surprised when Pansy balled up her fist and punched him in the shoulder.

“You stupid fucker!” she yelled, as he stumbled backwards.

“What was that for?” Dudley demanded.

“You could have been killed!” Pansy cried, aiming a kick at his knee that Dudley somehow managed to dodge. “ _I_ could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t!” he protested, holding up his hands against the barrage of blows Pansy tried to land against his chest. “You didn’t - it worked - it -”

“You didn’t _know_ it would work,” she screamed, her own fury taking her by surprise. “You’re as bad as your idiot of a cousin, act first and ask questions later and _look where that got him_." 

“Like you’re one to talk about stupid decisions,” Dudley shot back, and Pansy’s eyes narrowed into fierce slits.

“Oh _fuck you,_ Detective Inspector,” she spat, going to thump him again.

This time Dudley caught her fist, twisting so that she had to follow the movement or risk letting him break her arm, ending up with her back to his chest as he yanked her against him.  
  
"Could you just stop being such an impossible bitch for five - _ow_ !"  
  
Pansy's heel drove down on his instep with punishing force, and Dudley’s hold loosened enough that she was able to twist in his arms.  
  
His eyes widened slightly as she brought the shard of broken bowl that she had lifted from the counter to meet the vulnerable stretch of skin on the underside of his jaw. Dudley went very still, and Pansy swallowed hard as his gaze held hers, steady and patient.

“Make me,” she breathed.

He stayed silent long enough to make her wonder, and then he moved with a dueller’s speed, knocking the hand that held the porcelain fragment aside and covering her mouth with his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Nigella would be proud, I hope


	19. Advantage

_No. 12 Grimmauld Place  
_ _21st December 2009, 9.36am_

 

Andromeda dropped Teddy off at Grimmauld Place on the morning of the Yule celebration. Harry had agreed to take him shopping for last-minute supplies, though he suspected the list of errands that Andromeda had owled him was as much a ruse to keep Teddy (and perhaps Harry too) out from underfoot as anything else.

“Now, be good,” Andromeda was telling Teddy as Harry came into the parlour. From what he could see, the boy would be hard-pressed to do anything so onerous as make mischief, seeing as he was half-buried underneath what looked to be most of his winter wardrobe.

Teddy nodded earnestly up at his grandmother, his serious expression belied by his hair, which was turning bubblegum-pink at the tips.

“Need to work on your poker face there, kiddo,” Harry remarked, leaning in to kiss Andromeda’s cheek.

“What’s poker?” Teddy asked, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s a Mug- you know what? Doesn’t matter, and anyway it’s actually really boring and I don’t even remember what I was talking about,” Harry garbled, as Andromeda narrowed her eyes at him.

“I think that’s a new record for irresponsible behaviour,” she sighed, before looking down at Teddy again. “Forget what I said about being good,” she said, “since it’s clearly a lost cause. Just don’t be _troublesome_.”

“Yes, Granny,” Teddy nodded. He made his eyes impossibly large, so that he looked like a character from one of the Japanese cartoons Harry remembered Dudley watching during the summer holidays when they were teenagers.

“Stop that,” Andromeda said, though the corners of her eyes had crinkled into a familiar pattern of smile-lines. Sometimes Harry was astonished that he had ever mistaken her for Bellatrix.

Teddy grinned, and let his eyes return to normal. The pink had shot through his blonde curls, giving his hair a raspberry-ripple effect as he submitted to Andromeda’s tight hug.

Harry watched as she whispered something in Teddy’s ear, before she straightened to her full height, and fixed him with an implacable glare that made him remember _exactly_ why he had confused her with her older sister.

“Merry meet this Yuletide, Harry Potter,” she said, and Harry, caught off guard, stuttered his reply.

“Yes, er - Merry - that one.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know why I bother,” she huffed, before tossing a handful of Floo Powder onto the fire.

“I will see both of you at sunset _precisely_ ,” she said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement, before she stepped into the roaring Emerald flames and called, “The Black Riding!”

“She could probably have made that sound less ominous,” Harry remarked, looking down at Teddy.

“ _The Black Riding!_ ” the boy replied in an exaggeratedly spooky voice, his hair briefly turning into a pile of dark curls like his grandmother’s, as he waved his hands in the air. Harry tried and failed to stop himself from smirking, but he managed to compose his face before he shook a finger at Teddy.

“That’s unfair, and you know it,” he said.

“You started it,” Teddy retorted.

“Entirely beside the point,” Harry said. “I’m a grown-up, so I can do what I -”

The flames blazed upwards once more, and the tall, pale-haired figure of Draco Malfoy stepped out of the grate. His eyes slid past Harry without even a hint of acknowledgement before he turned his gaze around the room, peeling off his dragonhide gloves as he did so.

“Can’t say I love what you’ve done with the place,” he drawled, “though I’m sure it could be decidedly worse.”

Harry’s first thought was that he should have listened to Hermione about leaving the Floo open.

His second was that his godson was a devious little toerag.

“Teddy,” he demanded, between gritted teeth. “ _Why_ is Uncle Draco in my house?”

“Because I asked him to meet us here before we all go shopping,” Teddy replied innocently. “Why else?”

Harry attempted to glower at him. “You and I will be having words later, young man.”  
  
“Since it was my understanding that all concerned parties were aware I would be joining you for today’s outing, _Edward_ ,” Draco sniffed pointedly, “you and I will _also_ be having words later.” He paused long enough to offer Teddy a smirk. “Though you may rest assured that most of them will be too advanced for your uncle Harry’s vocabulary. Now,” he continued, finally looking Harry in the eye, and allowing his expression to edge dangerously close to good-humoured. “My mother’s given me a list of things we need to bring this evening that’s longer than my arm, so I suggest we get a move on.”

“You’ve got to be fu-ha- _hudging_ kidding me,” Harry grumbled, only just catching himself.

Teddy grinned up at him. “No one’s fucking kidding!” he trilled, reaching for the Floo powder on the mantelpiece.

“ _Teddy_!” Harry scolded. “For fu- _fudge_ \- oh damn Jesus bloody Christ - stop _laughing_!” he growled, rounding on Draco, whose eyes were sparkling with mirth, though he hadn’t actually made a sound.

“Merlin’s beard, Potter,” he said. “You’re an _astonishingly_ bad example. No wonder he’s swearing like a -

“I didn’t teach him that,” Harry barked unthinkingly, yanking his scarf around his neck so tightly that he almost throttled himself.

“Well, given that display, I’m hardly going to believe -”

“It’s true, actually,” Teddy nodded. “Auntie Hermione taught me to say ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘co-”

“Enough!” Harry said quickly. “Thanks, Ted, we get the picture.”

“Granger,” Draco said, shaking his head slowly. “I should have known.”

“Excuse me,” Harry protested. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Draco placed a hand on Teddy’s shoulder and turning him towards the fireplace. “She’s more trouble than you and Weasley put together, and you know it. Now,” he said to Teddy, “where do you want to start?”

Teddy gave Draco a look that was worryingly sly. “Maybe the Magical Menagerie,” he said. “I heard they have _ferrets_ there now.”

“ _Did_ you?” Draco asked, his voice impressively controlled. “And from whom might you have heard that?”

“Auntie Daphne,” Teddy said, before grinning broadly at Draco’s appalled expression.

“It would seem we have both been betrayed by the women we love best, Potter,” he lamented, after a momentary pause.

“I - what?” Harry spluttered. “The woman I - no - that’s -”

“Surely it cannot have escaped your notice that Theodore is my best friend,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “Now,” he said, jerking his head towards the flames. “Get in, Potter, we’re going shopping.”

 

* * *

 _The Ministry of Magic  
_ _21st December 2009, 3.13pm_

 

The Department had been steadily emptying out all day, as the skeleton staff of Aurors who had been re-admitted following the Ministry lockdown gradually peeled away to their various Yuletide celebrations.

Dean had poked his head in about twenty minutes ago to ask if he needed him for anything else, and Ron had waved him away, chewing on the end of his quill as he contemplated the messy spider diagram spread out on his desk.

The problem was they just didn’t have enough _leads_ , he thought, as he scratched out Ogden’s name from _Suspects_ and rewrote it with Marcus and Pansy’s under  _Victims_.

There had been another four bodies to add to the total count after the Ministry Christmas party, but nothing in the six days since, and Ron just couldn’t make sense of the quiet. Haringey, Gringotts and the Ministry were all linked by their sheer audacity, and so this lull was deeply worrying.

He had sat up late in his office on the evening that Dudley had taken Pansy to his Muggle party, half-expecting to receive an owl with news of another attack, but nothing of the like had arrived, and Ron had decided to be grateful for the small mercy of Pansy apparently still being well-hidden enough that whoever was behind all this hadn’t identified the Muggles as targets.

Except they _had_ , he remembered, because there was that police officer, Fitz-whatsit, who’d gone missing and then turned up in Wales…

Ron grimaced, and pinched the skin between his eyebrows. His eyes fell on the pile of torn parchment that he’d pushed to one side, and he smiled ruefully. He’d received the first note at about ten that morning, and had been worried for a moment when he’d read _I’D LIKE TO REPORT A CRIME_ , before realising that it was just Harry complaining about having to spend the day with Malfoy.

He’d received updates about the progress of the outing at regular intervals (" _Save me, I beg you_ ") over the past few hours (" _Spending this long looking at robes cannot be legal_ ") and found himself mildly jealous of what sounded like a rather fun day (" _Who eats ice-cream in winter?_ "). Despite the obvious improvements since they’d left school, Draco’s superior manner never failed to get on Ron’s nerves, but Harry actually seemed to get on quite well with him, for all that the two of them still pretended to loathe one another.

A flick of his wand told him that he really should be getting packed up if he wanted to make it to the Black Riding on time (and honestly, what sort of family had an entire region of Yorkshire made unplottable?) and Ron was just starting to shuffle his papers into order when there was a soft knock at his door.

“Oh,” he said, looking up. “Hey, Neville.”

“Hi,” Neville gave him a quick smile. “Not disturbing you, am I?”

“Nah,” Ron said. “To be honest I think I’ve been banging my head against a brick wall for the past hour or so.”

“Right,” Neville nodded. “Yeah.” He turned and looked back over his shoulder at the empty bullpen. “Just you left?”

“Everyone’s cleared off for Yule.” Ron yawned, and scratched his ear. “I was about to do the same, to be honest. Sounds like Andy and Narcissa are being pretty strict about this sunset thing.”

“Of course,” Neville said, before holding up a bottle. “Still, time for a quick nip before we head up, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ah,” Ron smiled. “Twist my arm.” He rummaged in his desk before producing two chipped mugs. “Sorry I don’t have anything better.”

“Nah,” Neville waved a hand. He’d rolled up his sleeves, and there was a smudge of ink on his arm. “They’ll do fine.”

“So how’s the nursery?” Ron asked, as Neville poured a generous slosh of Firewhiskey into each mug.

After his grandmother’s death, Neville had inherited Longbottom Manor, and had set about converting the grounds into a haven of magical horticulture. He’d even won a couple of grants for the protection of rare species, and regularly consulted for the DRMC in cases involving sentient or semi-sentient plants.

“Can’t complain,” Neville smiled as he handed Ron one of the mugs. “And I get to spend a fair amount of time here, which is always interesting.”

“A bit _too_ interesting at the moment,” Ron grumbled, taking the mug from Neville and lifting it towards him. “Anyway, happy Yule. Here’s to catching this bastard before Christmas”

“To everything being sorted by Christmas,” Neville nodded, sipping his whiskey.

“Blimey Nev,” Ron said, having taken a mouthful and staring appreciatively into his mug. “Where did this come from?”

“The cellars at home,” Neville shrugged, picking up the bottle to give Ron a better look. “Uncle Algie liked a drink.”

Ron couldn’t say how it happened. He was reaching for the bottle one moment, and the next it had dropped onto the desktop, smashing across his papers.

“Shit,” he said, reaching unthinkingly to try and sweep broken glass off his notes. “Oh, bollocks, this is -”

“Whoops,” Neville said softly. “Silly me. Always so clumsy.”

“Yeah,” Ron said absently, “it’s fine, don’t worry Nev, can you just - oh _balls_.”

He stared in shock at the line of bright red welling across his palm, before Neville reached out and grasped him tightly by the hand. The smudge of ink on his arm wasn’t a smudge at all, Ron realised, but the tail of a snake, the body disappearing up Neville’s sleeve.

He jerked his head up in time to see that Neville had drawn his wand. “What are you doing?” Ron barked, trying to jerk his hand free of his friend’s iron grip. “Nev - what -”

“ _Conpellare pollicere fidele_ ,” Neville whispered, and there was a flash of light above their joined hands.

 


	20. Cooperative

_Levisham, North Yorkshire_

_21st December 2009, 1.59pm_

 

With two hours to go before sunset on the winter solstice, Hermione stepped out of the fireplace in the small back parlour of the Horseshoe Inn at Levisham.

She took a deep breath of the warm scents of roasting beef and stale beer, before dusting soot from the shoulders of her cloak, and letting herself into the main room of the pub.

There were a number of patrons dotted around the room, most of them nursing drinks. They all seemed to be cut from a similar 'salt of the earth' cloth, and no one but the barman paid her any attention. He gave Hermione a cautious nod, and she smiled back at him, before looking around the room again. The smoke-blackened beams were decorated with horse brasses, and old photographs framed on the walls showed over a hundred years of village history.

She wondered whether a close inspection might yield the familiar, patrician features of the Blacks dotted in among the faces of the Muggles enjoying their fetes and carol-singing, but she didn't have time to linger. Andromeda had requested that she meet them at the Trilithon at half-past two, and according to the directions one the scrap of parchment in Hermione's hand, the mile-long hike to the site from the village was mostly uphill over rugged terrain.

Drawing her travelling cloak more tightly around her shoulders, Hermione made for the door, feeling the barman's eyes following her the whole way across the room before she let herself out into the clear, frigid cold of the moorland winter. The fresh air hit her lungs with surprising force, and she paused on the doorstep to exhale the memory of London's grime.

Across the narrow road from the pub a stand of trees stretched their naked branches towards the sky, cutting across the winsome glow of the sun. Hermione shielded her eyes as she squinted towards the horizon, which was already beginning to look faintly pink.

Even though she knew the boundary of the Black Riding was still some way away, already she could feel the faint tingle of strong magic against her skin; settling like a pleasurable ache at the back of her teeth. Most ancient magical sites had been incorporated into larger settlements, their power knitting into the environment until it became little more than a background hum, but here magic had substance, rubbing itself across the senses like a cat.

Hermione doubted she would even need to use Andromeda's directions to find the Trilithon, but she checked them anyway, turning right to follow the road northwards, and keeping an eye out for the footpath that would lead her onto the moor itself and into the unplottable hectares of the Black Riding.

The one warning that Andromeda had given her was not to stray from the path, as the land was a haven for creatures such as hinkypunks and redcaps. Magic like this attracted more than just the families who guarded it, and Hermione had been unsurprised to discover that the Black Riding had been the site of many ancient wizarding feuds.

"But then, the old families always did like to water their lands with blood," Andromeda had shrugged, as though this were an entirely normal thing to say.

Sometimes Hermione would find herself utterly furious at the gaps left by a Hogwarts education. What was the point in learning about the neverending pettiness of Wizengamot proceedings in the nineteenth century, when it would be far more interesting (and more helpful) to study ancient rites and feuds between the old famikies.

She reached a kissing gate that was half-hidden within a hedgerow of yew, threaded with yellowing hawthorn and spotted here and there by the bright red of holly berries. The branches crossed above the gate, forming an archway that appeared natural, though Hermione could feel the charms knitting it together as she stood beneath it and placed her hand on the oak gate.

A bolt of power jumped up her arm, and Hermione staggered slightly, though she maintained her grip on the wood, and suddenly she was standing in the fallow meadow on the other side of the gate, the hedgerow behind her, and a chill breeze threading its way through her hair.

"Well," Hermione remarked to herself. "That's efficient."

Standing in the meadow, she could see that a narrow path wound its way uphill between frozen clods of mud and grass towards a narrow cleft between two rising hills. Hermione recognised the long, low shapes as barrows, and shivered slightly even as she set off towards them, glad that she had thought to wear Muggle walking boots under her silvery robes.

Most people would elect to fly, she knew, but there was something deeply satisfying about the crunch of frozen ground underfoot, and though Ron and Harry liked to tease her about her aversion to brooms, Hermione felt a wonderful sense of peace descend as she listened to the sound of her footsteps, and the whistling of the wind as it blew uninterrupted across the frozen moor.

Living in London you learned to relish moments of quiet such as this, and as she neared the rise Hermione paused, closing her eyes for a moment just to listen, opening her palms towards the darkening sky.

Something tingled across her skin, and Hermione opened her eyes to see that it had begun to snow, though the sky above remained clear.

"Oh," she whispered, realising that the snowflakes were blowing from between the barrows, where the tall silhouettes of Andromeda and Narcissa had appeared.

"Merry meet, Hermione Granger," Andromeda said, stepping forwards and extending her hands to grasp Hermione's. "The Black Riding welcomes you."

"Merry meet," Hermione replied, resisting the urge to curtsey.

From behind her sister's shoulder, Narcissa gave her a sharp nod. "As the land welcomes you, so do we," she said. With her light blue eyes and impossibly blonde hair she almost looked carved from ice, and it really wasn't hard to see where Draco had got his looks.

"Erm," Hermione said. "Thank you?"

Andromeda smiled slightly, then turned, still leading Hermione by one hand. "Come on," she said. "We haven't time to stand here yapping. The pages of the year are turning."

"Endings and beginnings," Hermione murmured.

"Indeed," Andromeda said. "We thought that you would be rather a good candidate to complete our circle."

"Circle?" Hermione asked, surprised. She'd known that they wanted her there earlier than anyone else, but had assumed it was because they needed help setting up; and besides, she'd shown interest in the Trilithon.

"Sometimes I wonder what they teach you at that school," Narcissa sighed, echoing Hermione's thoughts so exactly that she was too surprised to respond. "The ancient Yule rite demands a casting by a magically powerful number. Of course, a seven is always preferable, but since we find ourselves reduced to the status of beggars -"

"Cissy!" Andromeda said warningly, and Hermione saw Narcissa roll her eyes.

"- we cannot allow ourselves to make a fuss," she finished, just as they finally stepped between the barrows, and the Trilithon came into view.

It was clearly ancient: the dark grey stones were so weathered that what would once have been neat, straight lines had been worn to rough edges. The structure fairly exuded magic; had Hermione not been wearing a travelling cloak she would have expected to see the hairs rising along her arms.

She stood listening for a moment, as though the magic were a tune on the air, and suddenly realised that she could discern gaps in the melody of the enchantment, and turned to Andromeda.

"It's not fixed yet," she frowned, and Andromeda smiled delightedly, turning to Narcissa.

"I told you," she said. "Perfect."

"Don't gloat," Narcissa sighed. "It doesn't suit you."

"I don't understand," Hermione said. "I thought it was a Yule casting you needed me for?"

"Yule for beginnings," Andromeda nodded. "The perfect time to complete the rite."

"And what does the rite involve, exactly?" Hermione asked. Her eyes had caught on rust-coloured handprint at about head height on one of the posts.

Narcissa gave her a considering look over her shoulder, before she opened her hand to show a faint, pink scar across her palm.

"Our blood raised these stones," she said, her low voice carrying easily on the wind. "And our blood remakes them."

"Blood?" Hermione asked, looking instinctively to Andromeda.

"Spells of making and unmaking," she said distantly. Her dark eyes raked the skyline, before coming back to focus on Hermione. "You have a grasp of biology, I assume?"

"Bio- yes?"

"And they say Muggles know nothing." Narcissa raised her eyebrows. "Why is it, do you think, that a rite of beginning would demand a circle of _witches_?"

"I - oh," Hermione said. "Oh."

There was so little published research on exactly _how_ magic was manifested in the human body, and though the inclusion of blood as an ingredient in so many dark spells and potions suggested it played a key part, she had never found a reliable source on the matter. Of course, it wasn't hard to see why the old Pureblood families would extend their protectionist agendas if curses such as the Invocation of Loyalty had once been commonplace.

"Of course," Narcissa sniffed, "some of the less traditional families found their own ways to work around these things. The Parkinsons, Carrows; the Fawleys, families like -"

"The Fawleys?" Hermione interrupted sharply, remembering Daphne's words.

_His mother was a Fawley, wasn't she?_

"All dead now, with Emilius gone," Andromeda nodded sadly.

"See what happens when you do not properly invest yourself," Narcissa muttered, her tone dark.

"What would a workaround involve?" Hermione asked, trying not to sound too eager, as her mind went into overdrive.

"Why would we concern ourselves with such things?" Narcissa asked. "If they were content to sully their magic with goblin-made trinkets then that is their business."

"Those diadems that Mama bought for us are goblin-made trinkets," Andromeda remarked drily.

"Precisely," Narcissa said. "Trinkets. Which is why -" she produced her wand from her robes, and Hermione held herself against her flinch "- we will be wearing these tonight."

"Well," Andromeda sighed, accepting the woven circlet of holly. "Teddy will be disappointed not to find us bedecked in jewels."

"I'm sure that he will recover," Narcissa said as she handed Hermione a circlet.

"What time are the others arriving?" Hermione asked, as she placed the holly gingerly on her head. It was going to get awfully tangled, she could already tell.

"Sunset," Andromeda replied, glancing towards the deepening lavender of the eastern horizon. "So we should make a start."

"Yes," Hermione nodded. She could hardly do anything now, she reasoned, and she would tell Harry and Ron what the older women had said about the Fawleys when they arrived.

For now, she turned to the Black sisters, who were watching her expectantly.

"Cloak off," Andromeda said helpfully, and Hermione's hands flew to her neck as she undid the clasp and let it slide to the ground, leaving her dressed in robes of silvery silk that matched Narcissa and Andromeda's.

"Well at least you had the sense to go to Twilfitts," Narcissa said. Hermione almost thought she detected a hint of approval in her voice.

"Chop chop," Andromeda said, beckoning Hermione forward. She was holding something pale in her hand that Hermione realised was a sharpened deer's antler.

"Is that for -"

"Ritual," Andromeda smiled. "It doesn't hurt, I promise."

Hermione nodded, her gaze lifting to the Trilithon. Up close, it seemed even bigger. "How much of my blood do you think it'll need?" she asked, her voice sounding smaller than she would have wished.

"Enough," Narcissa said cryptically.

"We didn't measure how much we gave," Andromeda said, rolling her eyes at her sister. "We just kept going until the stone seemed sated."

"Sated?" Hermione felt a prickle of unease, and instead of answering Andromeda nodded towards the handprint.

"Stopped absorbing," she said, smiling when Hermione's eyes widened. "Shall we get started?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it wouldn't be a Sally story without some ancient ritual magic, would it?
> 
> Apologies for my absence, I had to work unexpectedly and it completely screwed up my writing schedule, although seeing as my last holiday fic was finished in March, I'd say we're doing alright to have made it this far. 
> 
> A very merry Christmas to all of you (and happy holidays to those of you who celebrate other things); your response to this story thus far has been the best present a girl could ask for.


	21. Grim Trigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and hope you all had wonderful Christmases!

_Tulse Hill, South London_

_21st December 2009, 3.34pm_

 

“Too hot?” Dudley asked as he poured the water over Pansy’s head, careful to guard her face with his other hand. 

“Perfect,” she sighed, tipping her head back as he rinsed the conditioner out, her dark hair gleaming like oil. “Where did you learn to do this?”

Dudley swallowed thickly. “Before my mum died,” he said. “I tried to do as much for her as I could, and I think she preferred me to the nurses.” 

Pansy’s brushed her knuckles gently along the inside of his calf where it bracketed her waist.

“You don’t talk about her much,” she said softly.

“Not much to say,” Dudley shrugged, settling his back against the curve of the bath as Pansy leaned herself against him, her hair slick against the angle of his neck and shoulder. “I didn’t realise how bad things had been until she got ill and started to - to talk about stuff -”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Pansy said, when he had been silent for a few moments. “I know what it’s like to have a difficult family.” She turned her head and pressed her lips gently to the swell of muscle at the top of his arm.

“It isn’t that.” Dudley frowned, wondering how best to explain it. “It’s more - there was so much I’d just never - so much I’d thought was normal until I realised it wasn’t.”

Pansy said nothing, but she looped one arm around his knee and began to run her fingers up and down his shin. “Why did you join the police?” she asked.

“It was going to be the Army,” Dudley said. “But I wanted to be around for Mum, so this seemed a better option.”

“That makes sense,” Pansy nodded. “Always wanted to fight for a cause?”

“Hah.” Dudley shifted uncomfortably, inhaling the clean, coconut scent of Pansy’s hair as he leaned his cheek against her head. “That came on fairly late. I was an absolute shit at school.”

“You’re not the only one,” Pansy murmured. “But admitting that - knowing you were wrong, and being sorry - that’s got to count for _something_ , right?”

There was a note of agitation in her voice, and Dudley wrapped his arms tightly around her, feeling her tense and then relax against him.

“I spend every day wanting to do better,” he said quietly in her ear. “And I just have to hope that counts for something.”

Pansy angled her head so that her mouth brushed his. “I think -”

She was interrupted by the doorbell, and Dudley sighed reluctantly as he began to extricate himself from the very pleasant bathtub situation. “If that’s Theo, I’m going to kill him.”

He heard Pansy laughing as he roughly dried his hair before looping the towel around his waist and starting downstairs. Through the frosted glass windowpane on the front door he could see a familiar shock of red hair.

“Weasley,” Dudley nodded as he opened the door.

The tall Auror gave a start, then turned and frowned at Dudley. “Oh,” he said. “Hi.”

“Everything alright?” Dudley asked after a few moments, and Ron blinked, shook his head, then smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, long day. Can I talk to Pansy?”

“She’s just -” Dudley started to gesture over his shoulder, then paused, turning back to look at Ron. “You never call her Pansy.”

“Don’t I?” Ron shrugged, though his smile had started to tremble at the edges. “First time for everything though, isn’t there. Where did you say she is?”

He started to take a step inside, but Dudley blocked the door. “What do you want her for?” he demanded.

Ron’s face contorted, and for a moment he looked at Dudley with an expression of bleak horror, before his hand went to his pocket and he lifted his wand. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Well in that case -” Dudley tried to slam the door, but Ron’s foot was in the way. The wizard didn’t even wince.

“Get out of the way,” he said grimly.

“It can’t be you,” Dudley said. “You - what do you even _want_ -”

“Merlin’s beard.” Ron rolled his eyes and gestured impatiently with his wand. “Dursley, at the very best you would be collateral damage in this, so I suggest you leave playing the hero to your insufferable cousin.”

Ron’s voice had lost its faint west-country softness, and his tone was sharp and unpleasant. Dudley suddenly had the very distinct impression that it wasn’t actually Ron he was talking to.

“I won’t let you have her,” he growled. “How did you -”

“Oh I see.” There was something disturbingly mechanical about the way that Ron tilted his head. “Charmed you, has she? Worn down your defences? She always was a sl-”

“Is that Theo?” Pansy called from behind Dudley, and Ron’s gaze went past him. “Tell him -”

“Final warning,” Ron muttered. “You’re really not important enough for me to -”

“Weasley?” Pansy’s voice had sharpened. “What are you -”

“Time’s up,” Ron sighed, and Dudley tried again to slam the door before there was a bright flash of light and a searing pain tore its way through his chest.

The last thing he heard was Pansy’s scream.

* * *

  
_Levisham, North Yorkshire_  
_  
_ _21st December 2009, 3.34pm_

 

“There!” Teddy cried, lifting a hand from Harry’s waist to point towards the sizeable crowd gathered around the Trilithon.

“Thanks Ted, hadn’t spotted them,” Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. “Both hands on me please,” he added, feeling the broom attempt to lurch to one side as Teddy leaned past him towards the ground. Even in the gathering twilight he hardly needed the help to find the Trilithon; he could taste the thing’s power on the air, palpable enough that he suspected he could probably have found it blindfolded.

“You’re the one flying,” Teddy huffed. “I bet I could let go with _both_ hands if I wanted and you’d still be able to steer.”

“Well,” Harry said. “Yes, you’re probably right. But -” 

“And if you’d let me fly on my _own_ then you wouldn’t have to worry _at all_.”

“Good point,” Harry nodded. “But if you were flying on your own then we couldn’t do _this_.”

He pitched the broom sharply to the right, turning into a steep dive as Teddy whooped with exhilaration.

“Hold on tight!” Harry yelled, twisting the broom so that they began a tight corkscrew. The wind was powerful enough to draw stinging tears from his eyes, and he grinned to himself as he felt Teddy’s fingers tighten to a deathgrip on his coat.

A dark shape shot past his shoulder, and Harry wrenched them out of their descent to chase Draco over a low hillock, toes skimming the frozen grass below.

“Get him, Uncle Harry!” Teddy shouted, and Harry obliged, leaning low over the broomhandle as he drew level with Draco. Draco looked over and raised a brow, before jerking his head to one side. Harry followed him into a neat synchronised turn and they looped the broad earthworks, before coming to a stop side by side at its edge.

“Not completely terrible,” Draco commented, pulling out his wand and shrinking his broom, before stashing both in his pocket. He sounded the tiniest bit out of breath, and Harry grinned as Teddy leaped down beside them and immediately set off at a run towards Andromeda, who swept him into a hug.

“Do you think he’s going to tell her about the ice creams?” Draco asked, looking slightly uneasy.

“I think it’s the small fortune you let him spend in Wheezes that you need to worry about, mate,” Harry said, shrinking his own broom and tucking it into his inside pocket.

“Don’t call me ‘mate’, _Potter_ ,” Draco sniped.

“Fine,” Harry shrugged. “I think the ice creams are the least of your worries, _dickhead_.”

“That isn’t better!” Draco called after him as Harry set off, laughing, in the direction of the Trilithon and the assemblage of silver-clad witches and wizards. 

He didn’t realise that he’d been looking for Hermione among the crowd until she appeared from behind one of the pillars, and then it was as though everyone else simply disappeared as he strode towards her.

Harry was so used to seeing her in Muggle clothes, or one of his old jumpers, that the sight of her in a silver gown took his breath away. As well as the robes she also had a crown of holly twined into her windblown hair, and her cheeks were pink with cold.

She looked so glorious that he could barely think.

“You made it!” she said, grinning up at him as they drew level with one another. 

“We’re not _that_ late,” Harry protested. “I didn’t think -”

Before he could finish his sentence Hermione took his hands in her own, freezing, ones, and Harry’s brain abruptly short-circuited.

He could feel the magic on her skin, almost taste it on the air between them. Harry took a deep breath, and felt instantly light-headed; drunk on enchantment. It seemed to move through his whole body, moving like lightning as he dropped Hermione’s hands and went to cup her face.

“Goodness me, Potter, Granger. Perhaps you should consider getting a room.”

Draco’s drawl cut through the fog in Harry’s brain, and he drew back abruptly before he could press his lips to Hermione’s, giving his head a slight shake as he returned to earth.

“I - “ he started to say, still unable to think past her smile. She looked nearly as giddy as he felt, but her eyes darted to the side, and Harry realised they had an audience.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t -”

“I know,” Hermione dipped her chin, and then looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I had no idea it would be so potent.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded vaguely. “It packs a punch, I’ll give you that.” He glanced around, and saw a few people were still staring at them. Most of the eyes looked curious rather than surprised, and he found himself wondering just how far Kingsley’s network of hearsay extended.

“Yule,” Hermione said softly, and Harry looked back to her. She reached a hand up and pushed his hair behind his ear. “Yule for beginnings,” she whispered.

“Is that -” he started. “Is that a thing?”

“According to Andy and Ciss- Narcissa.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Were you about to call her Cissy?” Harry asked, delighted. “What on earth -”

“They’ve asked me to be the third in their circle for the midnight rite,” Hermione shrugged. “It seemed a bit too formal to keep calling her ‘Lady Malfoy’ after that.”

“They have?” Harry asked, looking towards the Black sisters, who were standing together by the Trilithon. Andromeda met his gaze with a smile; Narcissa with the slightest of nods.

“Widow, wife and warrior,” Draco remarked. “They’ve certainly decided to commit themselves to the old ways.”

“Are you still here?” Harry asked irritably, and Draco rewarded him with a thin smile.

“You make an excellent point, Potter,” he said, nudging Harry’s shoulder before he set off towards the Trilithon, pulling the bag of shrunken Diagon Alley purchases from his robes as he went. “Mother! Did you actually want this crate of elf wine or was it simply an excuse to get me out of the house?”

“Have you had a lovely day with him?” Hermione asked, smiling slyly when Harry glared at her.

“Are you in cahoots with Teddy on _all_ his little schemes or -”

“Only the ones I approve of,” she replied. “You’d be surprised what I’ve talked him out of over the years.”

“Christ,” Harry muttered, deciding to throw caution to the wind and snaking his arm around her waist as they started towards the rest of the crowd.  “So what does this evening involve, seeing as you’re apparently an integral part of proceedings?”

“A rite of opening and beginning,” Hermione said. “We’ve all bled to the Trilithon and so now -”

“Sorry,” Harry said, stopping dead. “You’ve all _what?_ ”

“I know,” Hermione said, lifting her hand to show him the freshly healed scar across her palm. “But if magic resides in our blood then it only makes sense that it’s the most efficient way to restore a magical site.”

“Mm,” Harry pursed his lips. “Well I’m still not sure that -”

She was kissing him before he could finish his sentence, and Harry could taste the magic on her tongue, the same way he could taste wine when she’d been drinking.

He wanted to pull off her robes and lay her down then and there on the frozen ground. He wanted to run his hands over every inch of her skin and then let his tongue follow the touch of his fingers just for good measure. He wanted to -

“You see?” Hermione whispered, when she drew back, and Harry nodded vaguely.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah I guess I -”

“Is that Pansy with Ron?” Hermione interrupted sharply, frowning over Harry’s shoulder. “I thought she wasn’t -”

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Ron’s voice boomed out from behind Harry, amplified by a _Sonorous_ charm. “Sorry for the short notice, but there’s been a change to the evening’s proceedings.”

It was Ron’s voice, but it wasn’t - the intonation was all wrong, and when Harry spun to look at him it was to see that his best friend’s face was curiously blank - except for his eyes, which were wild.

“We’ll be requiring your full attention,” Pansy said, spinning a wand in her fingers. Though her voice was filled with satisfaction, her face was also expressionless, her eyes glassy as she shot a curse towards someone who had tried to make a run for it. Harry flicked a glance over his shoulder in time to see Percy Weasley crumple to the ground.

“Please don’t think you can escape,” Ron said. “You’ll have noticed that it’s sunset; the Trilithon’s power will hold you all within its sphere until sunrise.”

“Ron,” Harry said, starting forward. Hermione hadn’t let go of his hand, and he drew strength from her grip on his fingers. “Ron - you don’t - who’s doing this, how have you -”

“Ah, Harry.” Ron’s grin was a terrible rictus motion, ugly on his amiably handsome face, before it abruptly dropped. “Well I guess since the gang’s all here, it can’t do any harm.”

Ron and Pansy both looked sharply towards the crowd around the Trilithon, and Harry and Hermione spun too, to see a cloaked figure shouldering his way from between the assorted witches and wizards, all of whom seemed frozen with fear.

“No!” Harry heard Hermione say; he could only shake his head, too stunned to form words.

“What?” Neville asked, shedding his cloak and rolling up his sleeves. Harry’s eyes followed the curling tail of the snake tattooed up Neville’s arm. “Not who you were expecting?”

 


End file.
